THE  "GEN  I U  S" 


University  of  California  •  Berkeley 

From  the  Collection  of 
EDWARD  HELLMAN  HELLER 

and 
ELINOR  RAAS  HELLER 


THE   "GENIUS" 


BY  THEODORE  DREISER 

SISTER  CARRIE 

JENNIE  GERHARDT 

A  TRAVELER  AT  FORTY 

A  TRILOGY  OF  DESIRE 

1.  THE  FINANCIER 

2.  THE  TITAN 

3.  ******** 


THE 

"G  E  N  I  U  S" 


BY 

THEODORE   DREISER 


NEW  YORK:  JOHN  LANE  COMPANY 
LONDON:  JOHN  LANE,  THE  BODLEY  HEAD 
TORONTO:  S.  B.  GUNDY  ::  MCMXV 


COPYRIGHT,  1915. 
BY  JOHN  LANE  COMPANY 


Press  of 

J.  J.  Little  &  Ives  Company 
New  York,  U.S.  A. 


"  Eugene  Witla,  wilt  thou  have  this  woman  to  thy 
wedded  wife,  to  live  together  after  God's  ordinance  in 
the  holy  estate  of  matrimony  ?  Wilt  thou  love  her, 
comfort  her,  honour  her,  and  keep  her  in  sickness 
and  in  health;  and  forsaking  all  others,  keep  thee 
only  unto  her,  so  long  as  ye  both  shall  live  ?  " 

"I  will." 


BOOK    I 
YOUTH 


THE  "GENIUS 


9  9 


CHAPTER   I 

THIS  story  has  its  beginnings  in  the  town  of  Alexandria,  Illi- 
nois, between  1884  and  1889,  at  the  time  when  the  place  had 
a  population  of  somewhere  near  ten  thousand.  There  was  about 
it  just  enough  of  the  air  of  a  city  to  relieve  it  of  the  sense  of  rural 
life.  It  had  one  street-car  line,  a  theatre, — or  rather,  an  opera 
house,  so-called  (why  no  one  might  say,  for  no  opera  was  ever 
performed  there) — two  railroads,  with  their  stations,  and  a  busi- 
ness district,  composed  of  four  brisk  sides  to  a  public  square. 
In  the  square  were  the  county  court-house  and  four  newspapers. 
These  two  morning  and  two  evening  papers  made  the  population 
fairly  aware  of  the  fact  that  life  was  full  of  issues,  local  and 
national,  and  that  there  were  many  interesting  and  varied  things 
to  do.  On  the  edge  of  town,  several  lakes  and  a  pretty  stream — 
perhaps  Alexandria's  most  pleasant  feature — gave  it  an  atmos- 
phere not  unakin  to  that  of  a  moderate-priced  summer  resort. 
Architecturally  the  town  was  not  new.  It  was  mostly  built  of 
wood,  as  all  American  towns  were  at  this  time,  but  laid  out 
prettily  in  some  sections,  with  houses  that  sat  back  in  great  yards, 
far  from  the  streets,  with  flower  beds,  brick  walks,  and  green 
trees  as  concomitants  of  a  comfortable  home  life.  Alexandria 
was  a  city  of  young  Americans.  Its  spirit  was  young.  Life  was 
all  before  almost  everybody.  It  was  really  good  to  be  alive. 

In  one  part  of  this  city  there  lived  a  family  which  in  its  charac- 
ter and  composition  might  well  have  been  considered  typically 
American  and  middle  western.  It  was  not  by  any  means  poor — 
or,  at  least,  did  not  consider  itself  so;  it  was  in  no  sense  rich. 
Thomas  Jefferson  Witla,  the  father,  was  a  sewing  machine  agent 
with  the  general  agency  in  that  county  of  one  of  the  best  known 
and  best  selling  machines  made.  From  each  twenty,  thirty-five 
or  sixty-dollar  machine  which  he  sold,  he  took  a  profit  of  thirty- 
five  per  cent.  The  sale  of  machines  was  not  great,  but  it  was 
enough  to  yield  him  nearly  two  thousand  dollars  a  year;  and  on 
that  he  had  managed  to  buy  a  house  and  lot,  to  furnish  it  com- 
fortably, to  send  his  children  to  school,  and  to  maintain  a  local 
store  on  the  public  square  where  the  latest  styles  of  machines 
were  displayed.  He  also  took  old  machines  of  other  makes  in 

9 


io  THE   "GENIUS" 

• 

exchange,  allowing  ten  to  fifteen  dollars  on  the  purchase  price  of 
a  new  machine.  He  also  repaired  machines, — and  with  that 
peculiar  energy  of  the  American  mind,  he  tried  to  do  a  little 
insurance  business  in  addition.  His  first  idea  was  that  his  son, 
Eugene  Tennyson  Witla,  might  take  charge  of  this  latter  work, 
once  he  became  old  enough  and  the  insurance  trade  had  developed 
sufficiently.  He  did  not  know  what  his  son  might  turn  out  to  be, 
but  it  was  always  well  to  have  an  anchor  to  windward. 

He  was  a  quick,  wiry,  active  man  of  no  great  stature,  sandy- 
haired,  with  blue  eyes  with  noticeable  eye-brows,  an  eagle  nose, 
and  a  rather  radiant  and  ingratiating  smile.  Service  as  a  canvass- 
ing salesman,  endeavoring  to  persuade  recalcitrant  wives  and 
indifferent  or  conservative  husbands  to  realize  that  they  really 
needed  a  new  machine  in  their  home,  had  taught  him  caution, 
tact,  savoir  faire.  He  knew  how  to  approach  people  pleasantly. 
His  wife  thought  too  much  so. 

Certainly  he  was  honest,  hard  working,  and  thrifty.  They  had 
been  waiting  a  long  time  for  the  day  when  they  could  say  they 
owned  their  own  home  and  had  a  little  something  laid  away 
for  emergencies.  That  day  had  come,  and  life  was  not  half  bad. 
Their  house  was  neat, — white  with  green  shutters,  surrounded  by 
a  yard  with  well  kept  flower  beds,  a  smooth  lawn,  and  some  few 
shapely  and  broad  spreading  trees.  There  was  a  front  porch  with 
rockers,  a  swing  under  one  tree,  a  hammock  under  another,  a 
buggy  and  several  canvassing  wagons  in  a  nearby  stable.  Witla 
liked  dogs,  so  there  were  two  collies.  Mrs.  Witla  liked  live 
things,  so  there  were  a  canary  bird,  a  cat,  some  chickens,  and  a 
bird  house  set  aloft  on  a  pole  where  a  few  blue-birds  made 
their  home.  It  was  a  nice  little  place,  and  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Witla 
were  rather  proud  of  it. 

Miriam  Witla  was  a  good  wife  to  her  husband.  A  daughter 
of  a  hay  and  grain  dealer  in  Wooster,  a  small  town  near  Alex- 
andria in  McLean  County,  she  had  never  been  farther  out  into 
the  world  than  Springfield  and  Chicago.  She  had  gone  to  Spring- 
field as  a  very  young  girl,  to  see  Lincoln  buried,  and  once  with 
her  husband  she  had  gone  to  the  state  fair  or  exposition  which 
was  held  annually  in  those  days  on  the  lake  front  in  Chicago. 
She  was  well  preserved,  good  looking,  poetic  under  a  marked 
outward  reserve.  It  was  she  who  had  insisted  upon  naming  her 
only  son  Eugene  Tennyson,  a  tribute  at  once  to  a  brother 
Eugene,  and  to  the  celebrated  romanticist  of  verse,  because  she 
had  been  so  impressed  with  his  "Idylls  of  the  King." 

Eugene  Tennyson  seemed  rather  strong  to  Witla  pere,  as  the 
name  of  a  middle-western  American  boy,  but  he  loved  his  wife 


THE5 'GENIUS'1  11 

and  gave  her  her  way  in  most  things.  He  rather  liked  the 
names  of  Sylvia  and  Myrtle  with  which  she  had  christened  the 
two  girls.  All  three  of  the  children  were  good  looking, — Sylvia, 
a  girl  of  twenty-one,  with  black  hair,  dark  eyes,  full  blown  like 
a  rose,  healthy,  active,  smiling.  Myrtle  was  of  a  less  vigorous 
constitution,  small,  pale,  shy,  but  intensely  sweet — like  the  flower 
she  was  named  after,  her  mother  said.  She  was  inclined  to  be 
studious  and  reflective,  to  read  verse  and  dream.  The  young 
bloods  of  the  high  school  were  all  crazy  to  talk  to  Myrtle  and 
to  walk  with  her,  but  they  could  find  no  wwds.  And  she  herself 
did  not  know  what  to  say* to  them. 

Eugene  Witla  was  the  apple  of  his  family's  eye,  younger  than 
either  of  his  two  sisters  by  two  years.  He  had  straight  smooth 
black  hair,  dark  almond-shaped  eyes,  a  straight  nose,  a  shapely 
but  not  aggressive  chin ;  his  teeth  were  even  and  white,  showing 
with  a  curious  delicacy  when  he  smiled,  as  if  he  were  proud  of 
them.  He  was  not  very  strong  to  begin  with,  moody,  and  to  a 
notable  extent  artistic.  Because  of  a  weak  stomach  and  a  semi- 
anaemic  condition,  he  did  not  really  appear  as  strong  as  he  was. 
He  had  emotion,  fire,  longings,  that  were  concealed  behind  a 
wall  of  reserve.  He  was  shy,  proud,  sensitive,  and  very  uncertain 
of  himself. 

When  at  home  he  lounged  about  the  house,  reading  Dickens, 
Thackeray,  Scott  and  Poe.  He  browsed  idly  through  one  book 
after  another,  wondering  about  life.  The  great  cities  appealed 
to  him.  He  thought  of  travel  as  a  wonderful  thing.  In  school 
he  read  Taine  and  Gibbon  between  recitation  hours,  wondering 
at  the  luxury  and  beauty  of  the  great  courts  of  the  world.  He 
cared  nothing  for  grammar,  nothing  for  mathematics,  nothing 
for  botany  or  physics,  except  odd  bits  here  and  there.  Curious 
facts  would  strike  him — the  composition  of  clouds,  the  composi- 
tion of  water,  the  chemical  elements  of  the  earth.  He  liked  to 
lie  in  the  hammock  at  home,  spring,  summer  or  fall,  and  look 
at  the  blue  sky  showing  through  the  trees.  A  soaring  buzzard 
poised  in  speculative  flight  held  his  attention  fixedly.  The  won- 
der of  a  snowy  cloud,  high  piled  like  wool,  and  drifting  as  an 
island,  was  like  a  song  to  him.  He  had  wit,  a  keen  sense  of 
humor,  a  sense  of  pathos.  Sometimes  he  thought  he  would 
draw;  sometimes  write.  He  had  a  little  talent  for  both,  he 
thought,  but  did  practically  nothing  with  either.  He  would 
sketch  now  and  then,  but  only  fragments — a  small  roof-top,  with 
smoke  curling  from  a  chimney  and  birds  flying;  a  bit  of  water 
with  a  willow  bending  over  it  and  perhaps  a  boat  anchored; 
a  mill  pond  with  ducks  afloat,  and  a  boy  or  woman  on  the 


12  THE   "GENIUS" 

bank.  He  really  had  no  great  talent  for  interpretation  at  this 
time,  only  an  intense  sense  of  beauty.  The  beauty  of  a  bird  in 
flight,  a  rose  in  bloom,  a  tree  swaying  in  the  wind — these  held 
him.  He  would  walk  the  streets  of  his  native  town  at  night, 
admiring  the  brightness  of  the  store  windows,  the  sense  of  youth 
and  enthusiasm  that  went  with  a  crowd;  the  sense  of  love  and 
comfort  and  home  that  spoke  through  the  glowing  windows  of 
houses  set  back  among  trees. 

He  admired  girls, — was  mad  about  them, — but  only  about 
those  who  were  truly  beautiful.  There  were  two  or  three  in  his 
school  who  reminded  him  of  poetic  phrases  he  had  come  across — 
"beauty  like  a  tightened  bow,"  "thy  hyacinth  hair,  thy  classic 
face,"  "a  dancing  shape,  an  image  gay" — but  he  could  not  talk 
to  them  with  ease.  They  were  beautiful  but  so  distant.  He 
invested  them  with  more  beauty  than  they  had;  the  beauty  was 
in  his  own  soul.  But  he  did  not  know  that.  One  girl  whose 
yellow  hair  lay  upon  her  neck  in  great  yellow  braids  like  ripe 
corn,  was  constantly  in  his  thoughts.  He  worshiped  her  from 
afar  but  she  never  knew.  She  never  knew  what  solemn  black 
eyes  burned  at  her  when  she  was  not  looking.  She  left  Alexan- 
dria, her  family  moving  to  another  town,  and  in  time  he  recov- 
ered, for  there  is  much  of  beauty.  But  the  color  of  her  hair  and 
the  wonder  of  her  neck  stayed  with  him  always. 

There  was  some  plan  on  the  part  of  Witla  to  send  these  chil- 
dren to  college,  but  none  of  them  showed  any  great  desire  for 
education.  They  were  perhaps  wiser  than  books,  for  they  were 
living  in  the  realm  of  imagination  and  feeling.  Sylvia  longed 
to  be  a  mother,  and  was  married  at  twenty-one  to  Henry  Burgess, 
the  son  of  Benjamin  C.  Burgess,  editor  of  the  Morning  Appeal. 
There  was  a  baby  the  first  year.  Myrtle  was  dreaming  through 
algebra  and  trigonometry,  wondering  whether  she  would  teach  or 
get  married,  for  the  moderate  prosperity  of  the  family  demanded 
that  she  do  something.  Eugene  mooned  through  his  studies, 
learning  nothing  practical.  He  wrote  a  little,  but  his  efforts 
at  sixteen  were  puerile.  He  drew,  but  there  was  no  one  to  tell 
him  whether  there  was  any  merit  in  the  things  he  did  or  not. 
Practical  matters  were  generally  without  significance  to  him. 
But  he  was  overawed  by  the  fact  that  the  world  demanded  prac- 
tical service — buying  and  selling  like  his  father,  clerking  in  stores, 
running  big  business.  It  was  a  confusing  maze,  and  he  won- 
dered, even  at  this  age,  what  was  to  become  of  him.  He  did  not 
object  to  the  kind  of  work  his  father  was  doing,  but  it  did  not 
interest  him.  For  himself  he  knew  it  would  be  a  pointless,  dreary 
way  of  making  a  living,  and  as  for  insurance,  that  was  equally 


THE    "GENIUS'  13 

bad.  He  could  hardly  bring  himself  to  read  through  the  long 
rigamarole  of  specifications  which  each  insurance  paper  itemized. 
There  were  times — evenings  and  Saturdays — when  he  clerked  in 
his  father's  store,  but  it  was  painful  work.  His  mind  was 
not  in  it. 

As  early  as  his  twelfth  year  his  father  had  begun  to  see  that 
Eugene  wras  not  cut'out  for  business,  and  by  the  time  he  was 
sixteen  he  was  convinced  of  it.  From  the  trend  of  his  reading 
and  his  percentage  marks  at  school,  he  was  equally  convinced 
that  the  boy  was  not  interested  in  his  studies.  Myrtle,  who 
was  two  classes  ahead  of  him  but  sometimes  in  the  same  room, 
reported  that  he  dreamed  too  much.  He  was  always  looking 
out  of  the  window. 

Eugene's  experience  with  girls  had  not  been  very  wide.  There 
were  those  very  minor  things  that  occur  in  early  youth — girls 
whom  we  furtively  kiss,  or  who  furtively  kiss  us — the  latter  had 
been  the  case  with  Eugene.  He  had  no  particular  interest  in 
any  one  girl.  At  fourteen  he  had  been  picked  by  a  little  girl 
at  a  party  as  an  affinity,  for  the  evening  at  least,  and  in  a  game 
of  "post-office"  had  enjoyed  the  wonder  of  a  girl's  arms  around 
him  in  a  dark  room  and  a  girl's  lips  against  his;  but  since  then 
there  had  been  no  re-encounter  of  any  kind.  He  had  dreamed 
of  love,  with  this  one  experience  as  a  basis,  but  always  in  a  shy, 
distant  way.  He  was  afraid  of  girls,  and  they,  to  tell  the  truth, 
were  afraid  of  him.  They  could  not  make  him  out. 

But  in  the  fall  of  his  seventeenth  year  Eugene  came  into  con- 
tact with  one  girl  who  made  a  profound  impression  on  him. 
Stella  Appleton  was  a  notably  beautiful  creature.  She  was  very 
fair,  Eugene's  own  age,  with  very  blue  eyes  and  a  slender  sylph- 
like  body.  She  was  gay  and  debonair  in  an  enticing  way,  without 
really  realizing  how  dangerous  she  was  to  the  average,  susceptible 
male  heart.  She  liked  to  flirt  with  the  boys  because  it  amused 
her,  and  not  because  she  cared  for  anyone  in  particular.  There 
was  no  petty  meanness  about  it,  however,  for  she  thought  they 
were  all  rather  nice,  the  less  clever  appealing  to  her  almost  more 
than  the  sophisticated.  She  may  have  liked  Eugene  originally 
because  of  his  shyness. 

He  saw  her  first  at  the  beginning  of  his  last  school  year  when 
she  came  to  the  city  and  entered  the  second  high  school  class. 
Her  father  had  come  from  Moline,  Illinois,  to  take  a  position  as 
manager  of  a  new  pulley  manufactory  which  was  just  starting. 
She  had  quickly  become  friends  with  his  sister  Myrtle,  being  per- 
haps attracted  by  her  quiet  ways,  as  Myrtle  was  by  Stella's 
gaiety. 


i4  THE    "GENIUS" 

One  afternoon,  as  Myrtle  and  Stella  were  on  Main  Street, 
walking  home  from  the  post  office,  they  met  Eugene,  who  was 
on  his  wTay  to  visit  a  boy  friend.  He  was  really  bashful ;  and 
when  he  saw  them  approaching  he  wanted  to  escape,  but  there 
was  no  way.  They  saw  him,  and  Stella  approached  confidently 
enough.  Myrtle  was  anxious  to  intercept  him,  because  she  had 
her  pretty  companion  with  her. 

"You  haven't  been  home,  have  you?"  she  asked,  stopping. 
This  was  her  chance  to  introduce  Stella ;  Eugene  couldn't  escape. 
"Miss  Appleton,  this  is  my  brother  Eugene." 

Stella  gave  him  a  sunny  encouraging  smile,  and  her  hand, 
which  he  took  gingerly.  He  was  plainly  nervous. 

"I'm  not  very  clean,"  he  said  apologetically.  "I've  been  help- 
ing father  fix  a  buggy." 

"Oh,  we  don't  mind,"  said  Myrtle.     "Where  are  you  going?" 

"Over  to  Harry  Morris's,"  he  explained. 

"What  for?" 

"We're  going  for  hickory  nuts." 

"Oh,  I  wish  I  had  some,"  said  Stella. 

"I'll  bring  you  some,"  he  volunteered  gallantly. 

She  smiled  again.     "I  wish  you  would." 

She  almost  proposed  that  they  should  be  taken  along,  but  inex- 
perience hindered  her. 

Eugene  was  struck  with  all  her  charm  at  once.  She  seemed 
like  one  of  those  unattainable  creatures  who  had  swum  into  his 
ken  a  little  earlier  and  disappeared.  There  was  something  of 
the  girl  with  the  corn-colored  hair  about  her,  only  she  had  been 
more  human,  less  like  a  dream.  This  girl  was  fine,  delicate,  pink, 
like  porcelain.  She  was  fragile  and  yet  virile.  He  caught  his 
breath,  but  he  was  more  or  less  afraid  of  her.  He  did  not  know 
what  she  might  be  thinking  of  him. 

"Well,  we're  going  on  to  the  house,"  said  Myrtle. 

"I'd  go  along  if  I  hadn't  promised  Harry  I'd  come  over." 

"Oh,  that's  all  right,"  replied  Myrtle.     "We  don't  mind." 

He  withdrew,  feeling  that  he  had  made  a  very  poor  impression. 
Stella's  eyes  had  been  on  him  in  a  very  inquiring  way.  She 
looked  after  him  when  he  had  gone. 

"Isn't  he  nice?"  she  said  to  Myrtle  frankly. 

"I  think  so,"  replied  Myrtle;  "kind  o'.  He's  too  moody, 
though." 

"What  makes  him?" 

"He  isn't  very  strong." 

"I  think  he  has  a  nice  smile." 

"I'll  tell  him!" 


THE!'GENIUS':  15 

"No,  please  don't!    You  won't,  will  you?" 

"No." 

"But  he  has  a  nice  smile." 

"I'll  ask  you  round  to  the  house  some  evening  and  you  can 
meet  him  again." 

"I'd  like  to,"  said  Stella.     "It  would  be  a  lot  of  fun." 

"Come  out  Saturday  evening  and  stay  all  night.  He's  home 
then." 

"I  will,"  said  Stella.    "Won't  that  be  fine!" 

"I  believe  you  like  him!"  laughed  Myrtle. 

"I  think  he's  awfully  nice,"  said  Stella,  simply. 

The  second  meeting  happened  on  Saturday  evening  as  ar- 
ranged, when  he  came  home  from  his  odd  day  at  his  father's 
insurance  office.  Stella  had  come  to  supper.  Eugene  saw  her 
through  the  open  sitting  room  door,  as  he  bounded  upstairs  to 
change  his  clothes,  for  he  had  a  fire  of  youth  which  no  sickness 
of  stomach  or  weakness  of  lungs  could  overcome  at  this  age.  A 
thrill  of  anticipation  ran  over  his  body.  He  took  especial  pains 
with  his  toilet,  adjusting  a  red  tie  to  a  nicety,  and  parting  his 
hair  carefully  in  the  middle.  He  came  down  after  a  while,  con- 
scious that  he  had  to  say  something  smart,  worthy  of  himself, 
or  she  would  not  see  how  attractive  he  was;  and  yet  he  was 
fearful  as  to  the  result.  When  he  entered  the  sitting  room  she 
was  sitting  with  his  sister  before  an  open  fire-place,  the  glow  of 
a  lamp  with  a  red-flowered  shade  warmly  illqminating  the  room. 
It  was  a  commonplace  room,  with  its  blue  cloth-covered  center 
table,  its  chairs  of  stereotyped  factory  design,  and  its  bookcase 
of  novels  and  histories,  but  it  was  homey,  and  the  sense  of  homi- 
ness  was  strong. 

Mrs.  Witla  was  in  and  out  occasionally,  looking  for  things 
which  appertained  to  her  functions  as  house-mother.  The  father 
was  not  home  yet;  he  would  get  there  by  supper-time,  having 
been  to  some  outlying  town  of  the  county  trying  to  sell  a  machine. 
Eugene  was  indifferent  to  his  presence  or  absence.  Mr.  Witla 
had  a  fund  of  humor  which  extended  to  joking  with  his  son  and 
daughters,  wrhen  he  was  feeling  good,  to  noting  their  budding 
interest  in  the  opposite  sex;  to  predicting  some  commonplace 
climax  to  their  one  grand  passion  when  it  should  come.  He  was 
fond  of  telling  Myrtle  that  she  would  one  day  marry  a  horse- 
doctor.  As  for  Eugene,  he  predicted  a  certain  Elsa  Brown,  who, 
his  wife  said,  had  greasy  curls.  This  did  not  irritate  either 
Myrtle  or  Eugene.  It  even  brought  a  wry  smile  to  Eugene's 
face  for  he  was  fond  of  a  jest;  but  he  saw  his  father  pretty  clearly 
even  at  this  age.  He  saw  the  smallness  of  his  business,  the 


16  THE   "GENIUS" 

ridiculousness  of  any  such  profession  having  any  claim  on  him. 
He  never  wanted  to  say  anything,  but  there  was  in  him  a  burn- 
ing opposition  to  the  commonplace,  a  molten  pit  in  a  crater  of 
reserve,  which  smoked  ominously  now  and  then  for  anyone  who 
could  have  read.  Neither  his  father  nor  his  mother  understood 
him.  To  them  he  was  a  peculiar  boy,  dreamy,  sickly,  unwitting, 
as  yet,  of  what  he  really  wanted. 

"Oh,  here  you  are!"  said  Myrtle,  when  he  came  in.  "Come 
and  sit  down." 

Stella  gave  him  an  enticing  smile. 

He  walked  to  the  mantel-piece  and  stood  there,  posing.  He 
wanted  to  impress  this  girl,  and  he  did  not  quite  know  how.  He 
was  almost  lost  for  anything  to  say. 

"You  can't  guess  what  we've  been  doing!"  his  sister  chirped 
helpfully. 

-Well— what?"  he  replied  blankly. 

"You  ought  to  guess.    Can't  you  be  nice  and  guess?" 

"One  guess,  anyhow,"  put  in  Stella. 

^Toasting  pop-corn,"  he  ventured  with  a  half  smile. 

"You're  warm."     It  was  Myrtle  speaking. 

Stella  looked  at  him  with  round  blue  eyes.  "One  more  guess," 
she  suggested. 

"Chestnuts!"  he  guessed. 

She  nodded  her  head  gaily.  "What  hair!"  he  thought. 
Then— "Where  are  they?" 

"Here's  one,"  laughed  his  new  acquaintance,  holding  out  a  tiny 
hand. 

Under  her  laughing  encouragement  he  was  finding:  his  voice. 
"Stingy!"  he  said. 

"Now  isn't  that  mean,"  she  exclaimed.     "I  gave  him  the  only 
one  I  had.    Don't  you  give  him  any  of  yours,  Myrtle." 
I  take  it  back,"  he  pleaded.    "I  didn't  know." 

"I  won't!"  exclaimed  Myrtle.  "Here,  Stella,"  and  she  held 
out  the  few  nuts  she  had  left,  "take  these,  and  don't  you  give 
him  any!"  She  put  them  in  Stella's  eager  hands. 

He  saw  her  meaning.  It  was  an  invitation  to  a  contest.  She 
wanted  him  to  try  to  make  her  give  him  some.  He  fell  in  with 
her  plan. 

"Here!"     He  stretched  out  his  palm.    "That's  not  right!" 

She  shook  her  head. 

"One,  anyhow,"  he  insisted. 

Her  head  moved  negatively  from  side  to  side  slowly. 

"One,"  he  pleaded,  drawing  near. 

Again  the  golden  negative.     But  her  hand  was  at  the  side 


THE    "GENIUS'  17 

nearest  him,  where  he  could  seize  it.  She  started  to  pass  its 
contents  behind  her  to  the  other  hand  but  he  jumped  and 
caught  it. 

"Myrtle!    Quick!"  she  called. 

Myrtle  came.  It  was  a  three-handed  struggle.  In  the  midst 
of  the  contest  Stella  twisted  and  rose  to  her  feet.  Her  hair 
brushed  his  face.  He  held  her  tiny  hand  firmly.  For  a  moment 
he  looked  into  her  eyes.  What  was  it?  He  could  not  say.  Only 
he  half  let  go  and  gave  her  the  victory. 

"There,"  she  smiled.     "Now  I'll  give  you  one." 

He  took  it,  laughing.  What  he  wanted  was  to  take  her  in 
his  arms. 

A  little  while  before  supper  his  father  came  in  and  sat  down, 
but  presently  took  a  Chicago  paper  and  went  into  the  dining 
room  to  read.  Then  his  mother  called  them  to  the  table,  and  he 
sat  by  Stella.  He  was  intensely  interested  in  what  she  did  and 
said.  If  her  lips  moved  he  noted  just  how.  When  her  teeth 
showed  he  thought  they  were  lovely.  A  little  ringlet  on  her  fore- 
head beckoned  him  like  a  golden  finger.  He  felt  the  wonder 
of  the  poetic  phrase,  "the  shining  strands  of  her  hair." 

After  dinner  he  and  Myrtle  and  Stella  went  back  to  the 
sitting  room.  His  father  stayed  behind  to  read,  his  mother  to 
wash  dishes.  Myrtle  left  the  room  after  a  bit  to  help  her  mother, 
and  then  these  twro  were  left  alone.  He  hadn't  much  to  say, 
now  that  they  were  together — he  couldn't  talk.  Something  about 
her  beauty  kept  him  silent. 

"Do  you  like  school?"  she  asked  after  a  time.  She  felt  as  if 
they  must  talk. 

"Only  fairly  well,"  he  replied.  "I'm  not  much  interested. 
I  think  I'll  quit  one  of  these  days  and  go  to  work." 

"What  do  you  expect  to  do?" 

"I  don't  know  yet — I'd  like  to  be  an  artist."  He  confessed  his 
ambition  for  the  first  time  in  his  life — why,  he  could  not  have 
said. 

Stella  took  no  note  of  it. 

"I  was  afraid  they  wouldn't  let  me  enter  second  year  high 
school,  but  they  did,"  she  remarked.  "The  superintendent  at 
Moline  had  to  write  the  superintendent  here." 

"They're  mean  about  those  things,"  he  cogitated. 

She  got  up  and  went  to  the  bookcase  to  look  at  the  boofcs. 
He  followed  after  a  little. 

"Do  you  like  Dickens?"  she  asked. 

He  nodded  his  head  solemnly  in  approval.  "Pretty  much," 
he  said. 


i8  THE    "GENIUS" 

"I  can't  like  him.  He's  too  long  drawn  out.  I  like  Scott 
better." 

"I  like  Scott,"  he  said. 

"I'll  tell  you  a  lovely  book  that  I  like."  She  paused,  her  lips 
parted  trying  to  remember  the  name.  She  lifted  her  hand  as 
though  to  pick  the  title  out  of  the  air.  "The  Fair  God,"  she 
exclaimed  at  last. 

"Yes — it's  fine,"  he  approved.  "I  thought  the  scene  in  the  old 
Aztec  temple  where  they  were  going  to  sacrifice  Ahwahee  was  so 
wonderful!" 

"Oh,  yes,  I  liked  that,"  she  added.  She  pulled  out  "Ben  Hur" 
and  turned  its  leaves  idly.  "And  this  was  so  good." 

"Wonderful!" 

They  paused  and  she  went  to  the  window,  standing  under  the 
cheap  lace  curtains.  It  was  a  moonlight  night.  The  rows  of 
trees  that  lined  the  street  on  either  side  were  leafless;  the  grass 
brown  and  dead.  Through  the  thin,  interlaced  twigs  that  were 
like  silver  filigree  they  could  see  the  lamps  of  other  houses  shin- 
ing through  half-drawn  blinds.  A  man  went  by,  a  black  shadow 
in  the  half-light. 

"Isn't  it  lovely?"  she  said. 

Eugene  came  near.    "It's  fine,"  he  answered. 

"I  wish  it  were  cold  enough  to  skate.  Do  you  skate?"  She 
turned  to  him. 

"Yes,  indeed,"  he  replied. 

"My,  it's  so  nice  on  a  moonlit  night.  I  used  to  skate  a  lot  at 
Moline." 

"We  skate  a  lot  here.    There're  two  lakes,  you  know." 

He  thought  of  the  clear  crystal  nights  when  the  ice  of  Green 
Lake  had  split  every  so  often  with  a  great  resounding  rumble. 
He  thought  of  the  crowds  of  boys  and  girls  shouting,  the  distant 
shadows,  the  stars.  Up  to  now  he  had  never  found  any  girl  to 
skate  with  successfully.  He  had  never  felt  just  easy  with  anyone. 
He  had  tried  it,  but  once  he  had  fallen  with  a  girl,  and  it  had 
almost  cured  him  of  skating  forever.  He  felt  as  though  he  could 
skate  with  Stella.  He  felt  that  she  might  like  to  skate  with 
him. 

"When  it  gets  colder  we  might  go,"  he  ventured.  "Myrtle 
skates." 

"Oh,  that'll  be  fine!"  she  applauded. 

Still  she  looked  out  into  the  street. 

After  a  bit  she  came  back  to  the  fire  and  stood  before  him, 
pensively  looking  down. 

"Do  you  think  your  father  will  stay  here?"  he  asked. 


THE  ''GEN  I  US'"  19 

"He  says  so.     He  likes  it  very  much." 

"Do  you?" 

"Yes— now." 

"Why  now?' 

"Oh,  I  didn't  like  it  at  first." 

"Why?" 

"Oh,  I  guess  it  was  because  I  didn't  know  anybody.  I  like 
it  though,  now."  She  lifted  her  eyes. 

He  drew  a  little  nearer. 

"It's  a  nice  place,"  he  said,  "but  there  isn't  much  for  me  here. 
I  think  I'll  leave  next  year." 

"Where  do  you  think  you'll  go?" 

"To  Chicago.     I  don't  want  to  stay  here." 

She  turned  her  body  toward  the  fire  and  he  moved  to  a  chair 
behind  her,  leaning  on  its  back.  She  felt  him  there  rather  close, 
but  did  not  move.  He  was  surprising  himself. 

"Aren't  you  ever  coming  back?"  she  asked. 

"Maybe.     It  all  depends.     I  suppose  so." 

"I  shouldn't  think  you'd  want  to  leave  yet." 

"Why?" 

"You  say  it's  so  nice." 

He  made  no  answer  and  she  looked  over  her  shoulder.  He 
was  leaning  very  much  toward  her. 

"Will  you  skate  with  me  this  winter  ?"  he  asked  meaningly. 

She  nodded  her  head. 

Myrtle  came  in. 

"What  are  you  two  talking  about?"  she  asked. 

"The  fine  skating  we  have  here,"  he  said. 

"I  love  to  skate,"  she  exclaimed. 

"So  do  I,"  added  Stella.     "It's  heavenly." 


CHAPTER  II 

SOME  of  the  incidents  of  this  courtship  that  followed, 
ephemeral  as  it  was,  left  a  profound  impression  on  Eugene's 
mind.  They  met  to  skate  not  long  after,  for  the  snow  came 
and  the  ice  and  there  was  wonderful  skating  on  Green  Lake. 
The  frost  was  so  prolonged  that  men  with  horses  and  ice-saws 
were  cutting  blocks  a  foot  thick  over  at  Miller's  Point,  where 
the  ice  houses  were.  Almost  every  day  after  Thanksgiving  there 
were  crowds  of  boys  and  girls  from  the  schools  scooting  about 
like  water  skippers.  Eugene  could  not  always  go  on  week 
evenings  and  Saturdays  because  he  had  to  assist  his  father  at  the 
store.  But  at  regular  intervals  he  could  ask  Myrtle  to  get  Stella 
and  let  them  all  go  together  at  night.  And  at  other  times  he 
would  ask  her  to  go  alone.  Not  infrequently  she  did. 

On  one  particular  occasion  they  were  below  a  group  of  houses 
which  crept  near  the  lake  on  high  ground.  The  moon  was  up, 
its  wooing  rays  reflected  in  the  polished  surfaces  of  the  ice. 
Through  the  black  masses  of  trees  that  lined  the  shore  could  be 
seen  the  glow  of  windows,  yellow  and  homey.  Eugene  and  Stella 
had  slowed  up  to  turn  about,  having  left  the  crowd  of  skaters 
some  distance  back.  Stella's  golden  curls  were  covered,  except 
for  a  few  ringlets,  with  a  French  cap;  her  body,  to  below  the 
hips,  encased  in  a  white  wool  Jersey,  close-fitting  and  shapely. 
The  skirt  below  was  a  grey  mixture  of  thick  wool  and  the 
stockings  were  covered  by  white  woolen  leggings.  She  looked 
tempting  and  knew  it. 

Suddenly,  as  they  turned,  one  of  her  skates  came  loose  and 
she  hobbled  and  exclaimed  about  it.  "Wait,"  said  Eugene,  "I'll 
fix  it." 

She  stood  before  him  and  he  fell  to  his  knees,  undoing  the 
twisted  strap.  When  he  had  the  skate  off  and  ready  for  her  foot 
he  looked  up,  and  she  looked  down  on  him,  smiling.  He  dropped 
the  skate  and  flung  his  arms  around  her  hips,  laying  his  head 
against  her  waist. 

"You're  a  bad  boy,"  she  said. 

For  a  few  minutes  she  kept  silent,  for  as  the  center  of  this 
lovely  scene  she  was  divine.  While  he  held  her  she  pulled  off  his 
wool  cap  and  laid  her  hand  on  his  hair.  It  almost  brought  tears 
to  his  eyes,  he  was  so  happy.  At  the  same  time  it  awakened  a 
tremendous  passion.  He  clutched  her  significantly. 

20 


THE    "GENIUS"  21 

"Fix  my  skate,  now,"  she  said  wisely. 

He  got  up  to  hug  her  but  she  would  not  let  him. 

"No,  no,"  she  protested.  "You  mustn't  do  like  that.  I  won't 
come  with  you  if  you  do." 

"Oh,  Stella!"  he  pleaded. 

"I  mean  it,"  she  insisted.    "You  mustn't  do  like  that." 

He  subsided,  hurt,  half  angry.  But  he  feared  her  will.  She 
was  really  not  as  ready  for  caresses  as  he  had  thought. 

Another  time  a  sleighing  party  was  given  by  some  school  girls, 
and  Stella,  Eugene  and  Myrtle  were  invited.  It  was  a  night  of 
snow  and  stars,  not  too  cold  but  bracing.  A  great  box-wagon 
had  been  dismantled  of  its  body  and  the  latter  put  on  runners 
and  filled  with  straw  and  warm  robes.  Eugene  and  Myrtle,  like 
the  others,  had  been  picked  up  at  their  door  after  the  sleigh  had 
gone  the  rounds  of  some  ten  peaceful  little  homes.  Stella  was 
not  in  yet,  but  in  a  little  while  her  house  was  reached. 

"Get  in  here,"  called  Myrtle,  though  she  was  half  the  length 
of  the  box  away  from  Eugene.  Her  request  made  him  angry. 
"Sit  by  me,"  he  called,  fearful  that  she  would  not.  She  climbed 
in  by  Myrtle  but  finding  the  space  not  to  her  liking  moved  farther 
down.  Eugene  made  a  special  effort  to  have  room  by  him,  and 
she  came  there  as  though  by  accident.  He  drew  a  buffalo  robe 
around  her  and  thrilled  to  think  that  she  was  really  there.  The 
sleigh  went  jingling  around  the  town  for  others,  and  finally 
struck  out  into  the  country.  It  passed  great  patches  of  dark 
woods  silent  in  the  snow,  little  white  frame  farmhouses  snuggled 
close  to  the  ground,  and  with  windows  that  gleamed  in  a  vague 
romantic  way.  The  stars  were  countless  and  keen.  The  whole 
scene  made  a  tremendous  impression  on  him,  for  he  was  in  love, 
and  here  beside  him,  in  the  shadow,  her  face  palely  outlined,  was 
this  girl.  He  could  make  out  the  sweetness  of  her  cheek,  her 
eyes,  the  softness  of  her  hair. 

There  was  a  good  deal  of  chatter  and  singing,  and  in  the  midst 
of  these  distractions  he  managed  to  slip  an  arm  about  her  waist, 
to  get  her  hand  in  his,  to  look  close  into  her  eyes,  trying  to 
divine  their  expression.  She  was  always  coy  with  him,  not  wholly 
yielding.  Three  or  four  times  he  kissed  her  cheek  furtively  and 
once  her  mouth.  In  a  dark  place  he  pulled  her  vigorously  to  him, 
putting  a  long,  sensuous  kiss  on  her  lips  that  frightened  her. 

"No,"  she  protested,  nervously.    "You  mustn't." 

He  ceased  for  a  time,  feeling  that  he  had  pressed  his  advantage 
too  closely.  But  the  night  in  all  its  beauty,  and  she  in  hers  made 
a  lasting  impression. 


22  THE    "GENIUS'1 

"I  think  we  ought  to  get  Eugene  into  newspaper  work  or 
something  like  that/'  Witla  senior  suggested  to  his  wife. 

"It  looks  as  though  that's  all  he  would  be  good  for,  at  least 
now,"  replied  Mrs.  Witla,  who  was  satisfied  that  her  boy  had 
not  yet  found  himself.  "I  think  he'll  do  something  better  later 
on.  His  health  isn't  very  good,  you  know." 

Witla  half  suspected  that  his  boy  was  naturally  lazy,  but  he 
wasn't  sure.  He  suggested  that  Benjamin  C.  Burgess,  the 
prospective  father-in-law  of  Sylvia  and  the  editor  and  proprietor 
of  the  Morning  Appeal,  might  give  him  a  place  as  a  reporter  or 
type-setter  in  order  that  he  might  learn  the  business  from  the 
ground  up.  The  Appeal  carried  few  employees,  but  Mr.  Burgess 
might  have  no  objections  to  starting  Eugene  as  a  reporter  if  he 
could  write,  or  as  a  student  of  type-setting,  or  both.  He  appealed 
to  Burgess  one  day  on  the  street. 

"Say,  Burgess,"  he  said,  "you  wouldn't  have  a  place  over  in 
your  shop  for  that  boy  of  mine,  would  you  ?  He  likes  to  scribble 
a  little,  I  notice.  I  think  he  pretends  to  draw  a  little,  too,  though 
I  guess  it  doesn't  amount  to  much.  He  ought  to  get  into  some- 
thing. He  isn't  doing  anything  at  school.  Maybe  he  could 
learn  type-setting.  It  wouldn't  hurt  him  to  begin  at  the  bottom 
if  he's  going  to  follow  that  line.  It  wouldn't  matter  what  you 
paid  him  to  begin  with." 

Burgess  thought.  He  had  seen  Eugene  around  town,  knew 
no  harm  of  him  except  that  he  was  lackadaisical  and  rather 
moody. 

"Send  him  in  to  see  me  some  day,"  he  replied  noncommittally. 
"I  might  do  something  for  him." 

"I'd  certainly  be  much  obliged  to  you  if  you  would,"  said 
Witla.  "He  is  not  doing  much  good  as  it  is  now,"  and  the  two 
men  parted. 

He  went  home  and  told  Eugene.  "Burgess  says  he  might  give 
you  a  position  as  a  type-setter  or  a  reporter  on  the  Appeal  if 
you'd  come  in  and  see  him  some  day,"  he  explained,  looking  over 
to  where  his  son  was  reading  by  the  lamp. 

"Does  he?"  replied  Eugene  calmly.  "Well,  I  can't  write.  I 
might  set  type.  Did  you  ask  him?" 

"Yes,"  said  Witla.    "You'd  better  go  to  him  some  day." 

Eugene  bit  his  lip.  He  realized  this  was  a  commentary  on 
his  loafing  propensities.  He  wasn't  doing  very  well,  that  was 
certain.  Still  type-setting  was  no  bright  field  for  a  person 
of  his  temperament.  "I  will,"  he  concluded,  "when  school's 
over." 

"Better  speak  before  school  ends.     Some  of  the  other  fellows 


THE   '"GENIUS"  23 

might  ask  for  it  around  that  time.  It  wouldn't  hurt  you  to  try 
your  hand  at  it." 

"I  will/'  said  Eugene  obediently. 

He  stopped  in  one  sunny  April  afternoon  at  Mr.  Burgess' 
office.  It  was  on  the  ground  floor  of  the  three-story  Appeal 
building  in  the  public  square.  Mr.  Burgess,  a  fat  man,  slightly 
bald,  looked  at  him  quizzically  over  his  steel  rimmed  spectacles. 
What  little  hair  he  had  was  gray. 

"So  you  think  you  would  like  to  go  into  the  newspaper  busi- 
ness, do  you?"  queried  Burgess. 

"I'd  like  to  try  my  hand  at  it,"  replied  the  boy.  "I'd  like  to 
see  whether  I  like  it." 

"I  can  tell  you  right  now  there's  very  little  in  it.  Your  father 
says  you  like  to  write." 

"I'd  like  to  well  enough,  but  I  don't  think  I  can.  I  wouldn't 
mind  learning  type-setting.  If  I  ever  could  write  I'd  be  per- 
fectly willing  to." 

"When  do  you  think  you'd  like  to  start?" 

"At  the  end  of  school,  if  it's  all  the  same  to  you." 

"It  doesn't  make  much  difference.  I'm  not  really  in  need  of 
anybody,  but  I  could  use  you.  Would  you  be  satisfied  with 
five  a  week  ?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Well,  come  in  when  you  are  ready.     I'll  see  what  I  can  do." 

He  waved  the  prospective  type-setter  away  with  a  movement 
of  his  fat  hand,  and  turned  to  his  black  walnut  desk,  dingy, 
covered  with  newspapers,  and  lit  by  a  green  shaded  electric 
light.  Eugene  went  out,  the  smell  of  fresh  printing  ink  in  his 
nose,  and  the  equally  aggressive  smell  of  damp  newspapers.  It 
was  going  to  be  an  interesting  experience,  he  thought,  but  per- 
haps a  waste  of  time.  He  did  not  think  so  much  of  Alexandria. 
Some  time  he  was  going  to  get  out  of  it. 

The  office  of  the  Appeal  was  not  different  from  that  of  any 
other  country  newspaper  office  within  the  confines  of  our  two 
hemispheres.  On  the  ground  floor  in  front  was  the  business 
office,  and  in  the  rear  the  one  large  flat  bed  press  and  the  job 
presses.  On  the  second  floor  was  the  composing  room  with  its 
rows  of  type  cases  on  their  high  racks — for  this  newspaper  was, 
like  most  other  country  newspapers,  still  set  by  hand ;  and  in  front 
was  the  one  dingy  office  of  the  so-called  editor,  or  managing 
editor,  or  city  editor — for  all  three  were  the  same  person,  a  Mr. 
Caleb  Williams  whom  Burgess  had  picked  up  in  times  past  from 
heaven  knows  where.  Williams  was  a  small,  lean,  wiry  man, 
with  a  black  pointed  beard  and  a  glass  eye  which  fixed  you  oddly 


24  THE    "GENIUS" 

with  its  black  pupil.  He  was  talkative,  skipped  about  from  duty 
to  duty,  wore  most  of  the  time  a  green  shade  pulled  low  over 
his  forehead,  and  smoked  a  brown  briar  pipe.  He  had  a  fund 
of  knowledge,  piled  up  in  metropolitan  journalistic  experience, 
but  he  was  anchored  here  with  a  wife  and  three  children,  after 
sailing,  no  doubt,  a  chartless  sea  of  troubles,  and  was  glad  to 
talk  life  and  experiences  after  office  hours  with  almost  anybody. 
It  took  him  from  eight  in  the  morning  until  two  in  the  afternoon 
to  gather  what  local  news  there  was,  and  either  write  it  or  edit 
it.  He  seemed  to  have  a  number  of  correspondents  who  sent 
him  weekly  batches  of  news  from  surrounding  points.  The 
Associated  Press  furnished  him  with  a  few  minor  items  by  tele- 
graph, and  there  was  a  "patent  insides,"  two  pages  of  fiction, 
household  hints,  medicine  ads.  and  what  not,  which  saved  him 
considerable  time  and  stress.  Most  of  the  news  which  came 
to  him  received  short  shrift  in  the  matter  of  editing.  "In  Chi- 
cago we  used  to  give  a  lot  of  attention  to  this  sort  of  thing/* 
Williams  was  wont  to  declare  to  anyone  who  was  near,  "but  you 
can't  do  it  down  here.  The  readers  really  don't  expect  it. 
They're  looking  for  local  items.  I  always  look  after  the  local 
items  pretty  sharp." 

Mr.  Burgess  took  care  of  the  advertising  sections.  In  fact  he 
solicited  advertising  personally,  saw  that  it  was  properly  set  up 
as  the  advertiser  wanted  it,  and  properly  placed  according  to  the 
convenience  of  the  day  and  the  rights  and  demands  of  others. 
He  was  the  politician  of  the  concern,  the  handshaker,  the  guider 
of  its  policy.  He  wrote  editorials  now  and  then,  or,  with 
Williams,  decided  just  what  their  sense  must  be,  met  the  visitors 
who  came  to  the  office  to  see  the  editor,  and  arbitrated  all  known 
forms  of  difficulties.  He  was  at  the  beck  and  call  of  certain 
Republican  party-leaders  in  the  county;  but  that  seemed  natural, 
for  he  was  a  Republican  himself  by  temperament  and  disposition. 
He  was  appointed  postmaster  once  to  pay  him  for  some  useful 
services,  but  he  declined  because  he  was  really  making  more  out 
of  his  paper  than  his  postmastership  would  have  brought.  He 
received  whatever  city  or  county  advertising  it  was  in  the  power 
of  the  Republican  leaders  to  give  him,  and  so  he  did  very  well. 
The  complications  of  his  political  relationships  Williams  knew  in 
part,  but  they  never  troubled  that  industrious  soul.  He  dis- 
pensed with  moralizing.  "I  have  to  make  a  living  for  myself, 
my  wife  and  three  children.  That's  enough  to  keep  me  going 
without  bothering  my  head  about  other  people."  So  this  office 
was  really  run  very  quietly,  efficiently,  and  in  most  ways  pleas- 
antly. It  was  a  sunny  place  to  work. 


THE    "GENIUS'  25 

Witla,  who  came  here  at  the  end  of  his  eleventh  school  year 
and  when  he  had  just  turned  seventeen,  was  impressed  with  the 
personality  of  Mr.  Williams.  He  liked  him.  He  came  to  like  a 
Jonas  Lyle  who  worked  at  what  might  be  called  the  head  desk 
of  the  composing  room,  and  a  certain  John  Summers  who  wrorked 
at  odd  times — whenever  there  was  an  extra  rush  of  job  printing. 
He  learned  very  quickly  that  John  Summers,  who  was  fifty-five, 
grey,  and  comparatively  silent,  was  troubled  with  weak  lungs  and 
drank.  Summers  would  slip  out  of  the  office  at  various  times  in 
the  day  and  be  gone  from  five  to  fifteen  minutes.  No  one  ever 
said  anything,  for  there  was  no  pressure  here.  What  work  was 
to  be  done  was  done.  Jonas  Lyle  was  of  a  more  interesting 
nature.  He  was  younger  by  ten  years,  stronger,  better  built,  but 
still  a  character.  He  was  semi-phlegmatic,  philosophic,  feebly 
literary.  He  had  worked,  as  Eugene  found  out  in  the  course  of 
time,  in  nearly  every  part  of  the  United  States — Denver,  Port- 
land, St.  Paul,  St.  Louis,  where  not,  and  had  a  fund  of  recollec- 
tions of  this  proprietor  and  that.  Whenever  he  saw  a  name  of 
particular  distinction  in  the  newspapers  he  was  apt  to  bring  the 
paper  to  Williams — and  later,  when  they  became  familiar,  to 

Eugene — and  say,  "I  knew  that  fellow  out  in .  He 

was  postmaster  (or  what  not)  at  X .  He's  come  up 

considerably  since  I  knew  him."  In  most  cases  he  did  not  know 
these  celebrities  personally  at  all,  but  he  knew  of  them,  and  the 
echo  of  their  fame  sounding  in  this  out-of-the-way  corner  of  the 
world  impressed  him.  He  was  a  careful  reader  of  proof  for 
Williams  in  a  rush,  a  quick  type-setter,  a  man  who  stayed  by  his 
tasks  faithfully.  But  he  hadn't  got  anywhere  in  the  world,  for, 
after  all,  he  was  little  more  than  a  machine.  Eugene  could  see 
that  at  a  glance. 

It  was  Lyle  who  taught  him  the  art  of  type-setting.  He 
demonstrated  the  first  day  the  theory  of  the  squares  or  pockets 
in  a  case,  how  some  letters  were  placed  more  conveniently  to  the 
hand  than  others,  why  some  letters  were  wrell  represented  as  to 
quantity,  why  capitals  were  used  in  certain  offices  for  certain  pur- 
poses, in  others  not.  "Now  on  the  Chicago  Tribune  we  used  to 
italicize  the  names  of  churches,  boats,  books,  hotels,  and  things  of 
that  sort.  That's  the  only  paper  I  ever  knew  to  do  that,"  he 
remarked.  What  slugs,  sticks,  galleys,  turnovers,  meant,  came 
rapidly  to  the  surface.  That  the  fingers  would  come  to  recognize 
weights  of  leads  by  the  touch,  that  a  letter  would  almost  instinc- 
tively find  its  way  back  to  its  proper  pocket,  even  though  you 
were  not  thinking,  once  you  became  expert,  were  facts  which  he 
cheerfully  communicated.  He  wanted  his  knowledge  taken  seri- 


26  THE    "GENIUS" 

ously,  and  this  serious  attention,  Eugene,  because  of  his  innate 
respect  for  learning  of  any  kind,  was  only  too  glad  to  give  him. 
He  did  not  know  what  he  wanted  to  do,  but  he  knew  quite  well 
that  he  wanted  to  see  everything.  This  shop  was  interesting  to 
him  for  some  little  time  for  this  reason,  for  though  he  soon  found 
that  he  did  not  want  to  be  a  type-setter  or  a  reporter,  or  indeed 
anything  much  in  connection  with  a  country  newspaper,  he  was 
learning  about  life.  He  worked  at  his  desk  cheerfully,  smiling 
out  upon  the  world,  which  indicated  its  presence  to  him  through 
an  open  window,  read  the  curious  bits  of  news  or  opinion  or 
local  advertisements  as  he  set  them  up,  and  dreamed  of  what 
the  world  might  have  in  store  for  him.  He  was  not  vastly  ambi- 
tious as  yet,  but  hopeful  and,  withal,  a  little  melancholy.  He 
could  see  boys  and  girls  whom  he  knew,  idling  in  the  streets  or 
on  the  corner  squares;  he  could  see  where  Ted  Martinwood  was 
driving  by  in  his  father's  buggy,  or  George  Anderson  was  going 
up  the  street  with  the  air  of  someone  who  would  never  need  to 
work.  George's  father  owned  the  one  and  only  hotel.  There 
were  thoughts  in  his  mind  of  fishing,  boating,  lolling  somewhere 
with  some  pretty  girl,  but  alas,  girls  did  not  apparently  take  to 
him  so  very  readily.  He  was  too  shy.  He  thought  it  must  be 
nice  to  be  rich.  So  he  dreamed. 

Eugene  was  at  that  age  when  he  wished  to  express  himself  in 
ardent  phrases.  He  was  also  at  the  age  when  bashfulness  held 
him  in  reserve,  even  though  he  were  in  love  and  intensely  emo- 
tional. He  could  only  say  to  Stella  what  seemed  trivial  things, 
and  look  his  intensity,  whereas  it  was  the  trivial  things  that  were 
most  pleasing  to  her,  not  the  intensity.  She  was  even  then  begin- 
ning to  think  he  was  a  little  strange,  a  little  too  tense  for  her 
disposition.  Yet  she  liked  him.  It  became  generally  understood 
around  town  that  Stella  was  his  girl.  School  day  mating  usually 
goes  that  way  in  a  small  city  or  village.  He  was  seen  to  go  out 
with  her.  His  father  teased  him.  Her  mother  and  father 
deemed  this  a  manifestation  of  calf  love,  not  so  much  on  her 
part,  for  they  were  aware  of  her  tendency  to  hold  lightly  any 
manifestation  of  affection  on  the  part  of  boys,  but  on  his.  They 
thought  his  sentimentalism  would  soon  be  wearisome  to  Stella. 
And  they  were  not  far  wrong  about  her.  On  one  occasion  at  a 
party  given  by  several  high  school  girls,  a  "country  post  office" 
was  organized.  That  was  one  of  those  games  which  mean  kissing 
only.  A  system  of  guessing  results  in  a  series  of  forfeits.  If  you 
miss  you  must  be  postmaster,  and  call  someone  for  "mail."  Mail 
means  to  be  kissed  in  a  dark  room  (where  the  postmaster  stands) 
by  someone  whom  you  like  or  who  likes  you.  You,  as  post- 


THE    "GENIUS"  27 

master,  have  authority  or  compulsion — however  you  feel  about  it 
— to  call  whom  you  please. 

In  this  particular  instance  Stella,  who  was  caught  before 
Eugene,  was  under  compulsion  to  call  someone  to  kiss.  Her  first 
thought  was  of  him,  but  on  account  of  the  frankness  of  the 
deed,  and  because  there  was  a  lurking  fear  in  her  of  his  eager- 
ness, the  name  she  felt  impelled  to  speak  was  Harvey  Rutter. 
Harvey  was  a  handsome  boy  whom  Stella  had  met  after  her  first 
encounter  with  Eugene.  He  was  not  as  yet  fascinating  to  her, 
but  pleasing.  She  had  a  coquettish  desire  to  see  what  he  was  like. 
This  was  her  first  direct  chance. 

He  stepped  gaily  in,  and  Eugene  was  at  once  insane  with 
jealousy.  He  could  not  understand  why  she  should  treat  him  in 
that  way.  When  it  came  to  his  turn  he  called  for  Bertha  Shoe- 
maker, whom  he  admired,  and  who  was  sweet  in  a  way,  but  who 
was  as  nothing  to  Stella  in  his  estimation.  The  pain  of  kissing 
her  when  he  really  wanted  the  other  girl  was  great.  When  he 
came  out  Stella  saw  moodiness  in  his  eyes,  but  chose  to  ignore  it. 
He  was  obviously  half-hearted  and  downcast  in  his  simulation 
of  joy. 

A  second  chance  came  to  her  and  this  time  she  called  him.  He 
went,  but  was  in  a  semi-defiant  mood.  He  wanted  to  punish  her. 
When  they  met  in  the  dark  she  expected  him  to  put  his  arms 
around  her.  Her  own  hands  were  up  to  about  where  his  shoul- 
ders should  be.  Instead  he  only  took  hold  of  one  of  her  arms 
with  his  hand  and  planted  a  chilly  kiss  on  her  lips.  If  he  had 
only  asked,  "Why  did  you?'1  or  held  her  close  and  pleaded  with 
her  not  to  treat  him  so  badly,  the  relationship  might  have  lasted 
longer.  Instead  he  said  nothing,  and  she  grew  defiant  and  she 
went  out  gaily.  There  was  a  strain  of  reserve  running  between 
them  until  the  party  broke  up  and  he  took  her  home. 

"You  must  be  melancholy  tonight,"  she  remarked,  after  the7 
had  walked  two  blocks  in  complete  silence.  The  streets  were 
dark,  and  their  feet  sounded  hollowly  on  the  brick  pavement. 

"Oh,  I'm  feeling  all  right,"  he  replied  moodily. 

"I  think  it's  awfully  nice  at  the  Weimers',  we  always  have  so 
much  fun  there." 

"Yes,  lots  of  fun,"  he  echoed  contemptuously. 

"Oh,  don't  be  so  cross!"  she  flared.  "You  haven't  any  reason 
for  fussing." 

"Haven't  I?" 

"No,  you  haven't." 

"Well  if  that's  the  way  you  feel  about  it  I  suppose  I  haven't. 
I  don't  see  it  that  way." 


28  THE   "GENIUS" 

"Well,  it  doesn't  make  any  difference  to  me  how  you  see  it." 

"Oh,  doesn't  it?" 

"No,  it  doesn't."    Her  head  was  up  and  she  was  angry. 

"Well  I'm  sure  then  it  doesn't  to  me." 

There  was  another  silence  which  endured  until  they  were 
almost  home. 

"Are  you  coming  to  the  sociable  next  Thursday?"  he  inquired. 
He  was  referring  to  a  Methodist  evening  entertainment  which, 
although  he  cared  very  little  about  it,  was  a  convenience  as  it 
enabled  him  to  see  her  and  take  her  home.  He  wras  prompted  to 
ask  by  the  fear  that  an  open  rupture  was  impending. 

"No,"  she  said.     "I  don't  think  I  will." 

"Why  not?" 

"I  don't  care  to." 

"I  think  you're  mean,"  he  said  reprovingly. 

"I  don't  care,"  she  replied.  "I  think  you're  too  bossy.  I 
don't  think  I  like  you  very  much  anyhow." 

His  heart  contracted  ominously. 

"You  can  do  as  you  please,"  he  persisted. 

They  reached  her  gate.  It  was  his  wont  to  kiss  her  in  the 
shadow — to  hold  her  tight  for  a  few  minutes  in  spite  of  her 
protests.  Tonight,  as  they  approached,  he  thought  of  doing  it, 
but  she  gave  him  no  chance.  When  they  reached  the  gate  she 
opened  it  quickly  and  slipped  in.  "Good-night,"  she  called. 

"Good-night,"  he  said,  and  then  as  she  reached  her  door, 
"Stella!" 

It  was  open,  and  she  slipped  in.  He  stood  in  the  dark,  hurt, 
sore,  oppressed.  What  should  he  do?  He  strolled  home  cudgel- 
ling his  brain  whether  never  to  speak  to  or  look  at  her  again  until 
she  came  to  him,  or  to  hunt  her  up  and  fight  it  all  out  with  her. 
She  was  in  the  wrong,  he  knew  that.  When  he  went  to  bed  he 
was  grieving  over  it,  and  when  he  awoke  it  was  with  him  all 
day. 

He  had  been  gaining  rather  rapidly  as  a  student  of  type-setting, 
and  to  a  certain  extent  of  the  theory  of  reporting,  and  he  worked 
diligently  and  earnestly  at  his  proposed  trade.  He  loved  to  look 
out  of  the  window  and  draw,  though  of  late,  after  knowing 
Stella  so  well  and  coming  to  quarrel  with  her  because  of  her  in- 
difference, there  was  little  heart  in  it.  This  getting  to  the  office, 
putting  on  an  apron,  and  starting  in  on  some  local  correspondence 
left  over  from  the  day  before,  or  some  telegraph  copy  which  had 
been  freshly  filed  on  his  hook,  had  its  constructive  value.  Wil- 
liams endeavored  to  use  him  on  some  local  items  of  news  as  a 
reporter,  but  he  was  a  slow  worker  and  almost  a  failure  at 


THE    "GENIUS'  29 

getting  all  the  facts.  He  did  not  appear  to  know  how  to  inter- 
view anybody,  and  would  come  back  with  a  story  which  needed 
to  be  filled  in  from  other  sources.  He  really  did  not  understand 
the  theory  of  news,  and  Williams  could  only  make  it  partially 
clear  to  him.  Mostly  he  worked  at  his  case,  but  he  did  learn 
some  things. 

For  one  thing,  the  theory  of  advertising  began  to  dawn  on  him. 
These  local  merchants  put  in  the  same  ads.  day  after  day,  and 
many  of  them  did  not  change  them  noticeably.  He  saw  Lyle  and 
Summers  taking  the  same  ads.  which  had  appeared  unchangingly 
from  month  to  month  in  so  far  as  their  main  features  were  con- 
cerned, and  alter  only  a  few  words  before  returning  them  to  the 
forms.  He  wondered  at  the  sameness  of  them,  and  when,  at  last, 
they  were  given  to  him  to  revise  he  often  wished  he  could 
change  them  a  little.  The  language  seemed  so  dull. 

"Why  don't  they  ever  put  little  drawings  in  these  ads?"  he 
asked  Lyle  one  day.  "Don't  you  think  they'd  look  a  little 
better?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  replied  Jonas.  "They  look  pretty  good. 
These  people  around  here  wouldn't  want  anything  like  that. 
They'd  think  it  was  too  fancy."  Eugene  had  seen  and  in  a  way 
studied  the  ads.  in  the  magazines.  They  seemed  so  much  more 
fascinating  to  him.  Why  couldn't  newspaper  ads.  be  different? 

Still  it  was  never  given  to  him  to  trouble  over  this  problem. 
Mr.  Burgess  dealt  with  the  advertisers.  He  settled  how  the  ads. 
were  to  be.  He  never  talked  to  Eugene  or  Summers  about  them, 
not  always  to  Lyle.  He  would  sometimes  have  Williams  explain 
just  what  their  character  and  layout  was  to  be.  Eugene  was  so 
young  that  Williams  at  first  did  not  pay  very  much  attention  to 
him,  but  after  a  while  he  began  to  realize  that  there  was  a  per- 
sonality here,  and  then  he  would  explain  things, — why  space  had 
to  be  short  for  some  items  and  long  for  others,  why  county 
news,  news  of  small  towns  around  Alexandria,  and  about  people, 
was  much  more  important  financially  to  the  paper  than  the  cor- 
rect reporting  of  the  death  of  the  sultan  of  Turkey.  The  most 
important  thing  was  to  get  the  local  names  right.  "Don't  ever 
misspell  them,"  he  once  cautioned  him.  "Don't  ever  leave  out  a 
part  of  a  name  if  you  can  help  it.  People  are  awfully  sensitive 
about  that.  They'll  stop  their  subscription  if  you  don't  watch 
out,  and  you  won't  know  what's  the  matter." 

Eugene  took  all  these  things  to  heart.  He  wanted  to  see  how 
the  thing  was  done,  though  basically  it  seemed  to  be  a  little  small. 
In  fact  people  seemed  a  little  small,  mostly. 

One  of  the  things  that  did  interest  him  was  to  see  the  paper 


30  THE    "GENIUS'' 

put  on  the  press  and  run  off.  He  liked  to  help  lock  up  the 
forms,  and  to  see  how  they  were  imposed  and  registered.  He 
liked  to  hear  the  press  run,  and  to  help  carry  the  wet  papers  to 
the  mailing  tables  and  the  distributing  counter  out  in  front.  The 
paper  hadn't  a  very  large  circulation  but  there  was  a  slight  hum 
of  life  about  that  time  and  he  liked  it.  He  liked  the  sense  of 
getting  his  hands  and  face  streaked  and  not  caring,  and  of  seeing 
his  hair  tousled,  in  the  mirror.  He  tried  to  be  useful  and  the 
various  people  on  the  paper  came  to  like  him,  though  he  was 
often  a  little  awkward  and  slow.  He  was  not  strong  at  this 
period  and  his  stomach  troubled  him.  He  thought,  too,  that  the 
smell  of  the  ink  might  affect  his  lungs,  though  he  did  not  seri- 
ously fear  it.  In  the  main  it  was  interesting  but  small;  there 
was  a  much  larger  world  outside,  he  knew  that.  He  hoped  to 
go  to  it  some  day;  he  hoped  to  go  to  Chicago. 


CHAPTER  III 

EUGENE  grew  more  and  more  moody  and  rather  restless 
under  Stella's  increasing  independence.  She  grew  steadily 
more  indifferent  because  of  his  moods.  The  fact  that  other  boys 
were  crazy  for  her  consideration  was  a  great  factor;  the  fact 
that  one  particular  boy,  Harvey  Rutter,  was  persistently  genial, 
not  insistent,  really  better  looking  than  Eugene  and  much  better 
tempered,  helped  a  great  deal.  Eugene  saw  her  with  him  now 
and  then,  saw  her  go  skating  with  him,  or  at  least  with  a  crowd 
of  which  he  was  a  member.  Eugene  hated  him  heartily;  he  hated 
her  at  times  for  not  yielding  to  him  wholly;  but  he  was  none 
the  less  wild  over  her  beauty.  It  stamped  his  brain  with  a  type 
or  ideal.  Thereafter  he  knew  in  a  really  definite  way  what 
womanhood  ought  to  be,  to  be  really  beautiful. 

Another  thing  it  did  was  to  bring  home  to  him  a  sense  of 
his  position  in  the  world.  So  far  he  had  always  been  dependent 
on  his  parents  for  food,  clothes  and  spending  money,  and  his 
parents  were  not  very  liberal.  He  knew  other  boys  who  had 
money  to  run  up  to  Chicago  or  down  to  Springfield — the  latter 
was  nearer — to  have  a  Saturday  and  Sunday  lark.  No  such 
gaieties  were  for  him.  His  father  would  not  allow  it,  or  rather 
would  not  pay  for  it.  There  were  other  boys  who,  in  conse- 
quence of  amply  provided  spending  money,  were  the  town  dandies. 
He  saw  them  kicking  their  heels  outside  the  corner  book  store, 
the  principal  loafing  place  of  the  elite,  on  Wednesdays  and  Satur- 
days and  sometimes  on  Sunday  evenings  preparatory  to  going 
somewhere,  dressed  in  a  luxury  of  clothing  which  wras  beyond' 
his  wildest  dreams.  Ted  Martinwood,  the  son  of  the  principal 
drygoods  man,  had  a  frock  coat  in  which  he  sometimes  appeared 
when  he  came  down  to  the  barber  shop  for  a  shave  before  he 
went  to  call  on  his  girl.  George  Anderson  was  possessed  of  a 
dress  suit,  and  wore  dancing  pumps  at  all  dances.  There  was 
Ed  Waterbury,  who  was  known  to  have  a  horse  and  runabout 
of  his  own.  These  youths  were  slightly  older,  and  were  inter- 
ested in  girls  of  a  slightly  older  set,  but  the  point  was  the  same. 
These  things  hurt  him. 

He  himself  had  no  avenue  of  progress  which,  so  far  as  he 
could  see,  was  going  to  bring  him  to  any  financial  prosperity.  His 
father  was  never  going  to  be  rich,  anybody  could  see  that.  He 
himself  had  made  no  practical  progress  in  schoolwork — he  knew 


32  THE    "GENIUS" 

that.  He  hated  insurance — soliciting  or  writing,  despised  the 
sewing  machine  business,  and  did  not  know  where  he  would  get 
with  anything  which  he  might  like  to  do  in  literature  or  art. 
His  drawing  seemed  a  joke,  his  writing,  or  wish  for  writing, 
pointless.  He  was  broodingly  unhappy. 

One  day  Williams,  who  had  been  watching  him  for  a  long 
time,  stopped  at  his  desk. 

"I  say,  Witla,  why  don't  you  go  to  Chicago?"  he  said. 
"There's  a  lot  more  up  there  for  a  boy  like  you  than  down  here. 
You'll  never  get  anywhere  working  on  a  country  newspaper." 

"I  know  it,"  said  Eugene. 

"Now  with  me  it's  different,"  went  on  Williams.  "I've  had 
my  rounds.  I've  got  a  wife  and  three  children  and  when  a  man's 
got  a  family  he  can't  afford  to  take  chances.  But  you're  young 
yet.  Why  don't  you  go  to  Chicago  and  get  on  a  paper?  You 
could  get  something." 

"What  could  I  get?"  asked  Eugene. 

"Well,  you  might  get  a  job  as  type-setter  if  you'd  join  the 
union.  I  don't  know  how  good  you'd  be  as  a  reporter — I  hardly 
think  that's  your  line.  But  you  might  study  art  and  learn  to 
draw.  Newspaper  artists  make  good  money." 

Eugene  thought  of  his  art.  It  wasn't  much.  He  didn't  do 
much  with  it.  Still  he  thought  of  Chicago;  the  world  appealed 
to  him.  If  he  could  only  get  out  of  here — if  he  could  only  make 
more  than  seven  or  eight  dollars  a  week.  He  brooded  about 
this. 

One  Sunday  afternoon  he  and  Stella  went  with  Myrtle  to 
Sylvia's  home,  and  after  a  brief  stay  Stella  announced  that  she 
would  have  to  be  going;  her  mother  would  be  expecting  her 
back.  Myrtle  was  for  going  with  her,  but  altered  her  mind 
when  Sylvia  asked  her  to  stay  to  tea.  "Let  Eugene  take  her 
home,"  Sylvia  said.  Eugene  was  delighted  in  his  persistent,  hope- 
less way.  He  was  not  yet  convinced  that  she  could  not  be  won 
to  love.  When  they  walked  out  in  the  fresh  sweet  air — it  was 
nearing  spring — he  felt  that  now  he  should  have  a  chance  of 
saying  something  which  would  be  winning — which  would  lure 
her  to  him. 

They  wrent  out  on  a  street  next  to  the  one  she  lived  on  quite 
to  the  confines  of  the  town.  She  wanted  to  turn  off  at  her 
street,  but  he  had  urged  her  not  to.  "Do  you  have  to  go  home 
just  yet?"  he  asked,  pleadingly. 

"No,  I  can  walk  a  little  way,"  she  replied. 

They  reached  a  vacant  place — the  last  house  a  little  distance 
back — talking  idly.  It  was  getting  hard  to  make  talk.  In  his 


THE    "GENIUS"  33 

efforts  to  be  entertaining  he  picked  up  three  twigs  to  show  her 
how  a  certain  trick  in  balancing  was  performed.  It  consisted  in 
laying  two  at  right  angles  with  each  other  and  with  a  third, 
using  the  latter  as  an  upright.  She  could  not  do  it,  of  course. 
She  was  not  really  very  much  interested.  He  wanted  her  to 
try  and  when  she  did,  took  hold  of  her  right  hand  to  steady  her 
efforts. 

"No,  don't,"  she  said,  drawing  her  hand  away.    "I  can  do  it." 

She  trifled  with  the  twigs  unsuccessfully  and  was  about  to  let 
them  fall,  when  he  took  hold  of  both  her  hands.  It  was  so  sud- 
den that  she  could  not  free  herself,  and  so  she  looked  him 
straight  in  the  eye. 

"Let  go,  Eugene,  please  let  go." 

He  shook  his  head,  gazing  at  her. 

"Please  let  go,"  she  went  on.  "You  mustn't  do  this.  I  don't 
want  you  to." 

"Why?" 

"Because." 

"Because  why?" 

"Well,  because  I  don't." 

"Don't  you  like  me  any  more,  Stella,  really?"  he  asked. 

"I  don't  think  I  do,  not  that  way." 

"But  you  did." 

"I  thought  I  did." 

"Have  you  changed  your  mind?" 

"Yes,  I  think  I  have." 

He  dropped  her  hands  and  looked  at  her  fixedly  and  dramat- 
ically. The  attitude  did  not  appeal  to  her.  They  strolled  back 
to  the  street,  and  when  they  neared  her  door  he  said,  "Well,  I 
suppose  there's  no  use  in  my  coming  to  see  you  any  more." 

"I  think  you'd  better  not,"  she  said  simply. 

She  walked  in,  never  looking  back,  and  instead  of  going  back 
to  his  sister's  he  went  home.  He  was  in  a  very  gloomy  mood, 
and  after  sitting  around  for  a  while  went  to  his  room.  The  night 
fell,  and  he  sat  there  looking  out  at  the  trees  and  grieving  about 
what  he  had  lost.  Perhaps  he  was  not  good  enough  for  her — he 
could  not  make  her  love  him.  Was  it  that  he  was  not  handsome 
enough — he  did  not  really  consider  himself  good  looking — or 
what  was  it,  a  lack  of  courage  or  strength? 

After  a  time  he  noticed  that  the  moon  was  hanging  over  the 
trees  like  a  bright  shield  in  the  sky.  Two  layers  of  thin  clouds 
were  moving  in  different  directions  on  different  levels.  He 
stopped  in  his  cogitations  to  think  where  these  clouds  came  from. 
On  sunny  days  when  there  were  great  argosies  of  them  he  had 


34  THE    "GENIUS'1 

seen  them  disappear  before  his  eyes,  and  then,  marvel  of  marvels, 
reappear  out  of  nothingness.  The  first  time  he  ever  saw  this  it 
astonished  him  greatly,  for  he  had  never  known  up  to  then  -what 
clouds  were.  Afterward  he  read  about  them  in  his  physical  geog- 
raphy. Tonight  he  thought  of  that,  and  of  the  great  plains  over 
which  these  winds  swept,  and  of  the  grass  and  trees — great  forests 
of  them — miles  and  miles.  What  a  wonderful  world!  Poets 
wrote  about  these  things,  Longfellow,  and  Bryant,  and  Tenny- 
son. He  thought  of  "Thanatopsis,"  and  of  the  "Elegy,"  both 
of  which  he  admired  greatly.  What  was  this  thing,  life? 

Then  he  came  back  to  Stella  with  an  ache.  She  was  actually 
gone,  and  she  was  so  beautiful.  She  would  never  really  talk  to 
him  any  more.  He  would  never  get  to  hold  her  hand  or  kiss  her. 
He  clenched  his  hands  with  the  hurt.  Oh,  that  night  on  the 
ice;  that  night  in  the  sleigh!  How  wonderful  they  were! 
Finally  he  undressed  and  went  to  bed.  He  wanted  to  be  alone — 
to  be  lonely.  On  his  clean  white  pillow  he  lay  and  dreamed  of 
the  things  that  might  have  been,  kisses,  caresses,  a  thousand 
joys. 

One  Sunday  afternoon  he  was  lying  in  his  hammock  thinking, 
thinking  of  what  a  dreary  place  Alexandria  was,  anyhow,  when 
he  opened  a  Chicago  Saturday  afternoon  paper,  which  was  some- 
thing like  a  Sunday  one  because  it  had  no  Sunday  edition, — and 
went  gloomily  through  it.  It  was  as  he  had  always  found,  full 
of  a  subtle  wonder,  the  wonder  of  the  city,  which  drew  him  like 
a  magnet.  Here  was  the  drawing  of  a  big  hotel  someone  was 
going  to  build;  there  was  a  sketch  of  a  great  pianist  who  was 
coming  to  play.  An  account  of  a  new  comedy  drama;  of  a  little 
romantic  section  of  Goose  Island  in  the  Chicago  river,  with  its 
old  decayed  boats  turned  into  houses  and  geese  waddling  about; 
an  item  of  a  man  falling  through  a  coal  hole  on  South  Halstead 
street  fascinated  him.  This  last  was  at  sixty-two  hundred  and 
something  and  the  idea  of  such  a  long  street  seized  on  his 
imagination.  .  What  a  tremendous  city  Chicago  must  be.  The 
thought  of  car  lines,  crowds,  trains,  came  to  him  with  almost  a 
yearning  appeal. 

All  at  once  the  magnet  got  him.  It  gripped  his  very  soul, 
this  wonder,  this  beauty,  this  life. 

"I'm  going  to  Chicago,"  he  thought,  and  got  up. 

There  was  his  nice,  quiet  little  home  laid  out  before  him. 
Inside  were  his  mother,  his  father,  Myrtle.  Still  he  was  going. 
He  could  come  back.  "Sure  I  can  come  back,"  he  thought.  Pro- 
pelled by  this  magnetic  power  he  went  in  and  upstairs  to  his 
room,  and  got  a  little  grip  or  portmanteau  he  had.  He  put  in 


THE    ''GENIUS'  35 

it  the  things  he  thought  he  would  immediately  need.  In  his 
pocket  were  nine  dollars,  money  he  had  been  saving  for  some 
time.  Finally  he  came  downstairs  and  stood  in  the  door  of  the 
sitting  room. 

"What's  the  matter?"  asked  his  mother,  looking  at  his  solemn 
introspective  face. 

"I'm  going  to  Chicago,"  he  said. 

"When?"  she  asked,  astonished,  a  little  uncertain  of  just 
what  he  meant. 

"Today,"  he  said. 

"No,  you're  joking."  She  smiled  unbelievingly.  This  was  a 
boyish  prank. 

"I'm  going  today,"  he  said.  "I'm  going  to  catch  that  four 
o'clock  train." 

Her  face  saddened.     "You're  not?"  she  said. 

"I  can  come  back,"  he  replied,  "if  I  want  to.  I  want  to  get 
something  else  to  do." 

His  father  came  in  at  this  time.  He  had  a  little  work  room 
out  in  the  barn  where  he  sometimes  cleaned  machines  and  re- 
paired vehicles.  He  was  fresh  from  such  a  task  now. 

"What's  up?"  he  asked,  seeing  his  wife  close  to  her  boy. 

"Eugene's  going  to  Chicago." 

"Since  when?"  he  inquired  amusedly. 

"Today.     He  says  he's  going  right  now." 

"You  don't  mean  it,"  said  Witla,  astonished.  He  really  did 
not  believe  it.  "Why  don't  you  take  a  little  time  and  think  it 
over?  What  are  you  going  to  live  on?" 

"I'll  live,"  said  Eugene.  "I'm  going.  I've  had  enough  of  this 
place.  I'm  going  to  get  out." 

"All  right,"  said  his  father,  who,  after  all,  believed  in  initia- 
tive. Evidently  after  all  he  hadn't  quite  understood  this  boy. 
"Got  your  trunk  packed?" 

"No,  but  mother  can  send  me  that." 

"Don't  go  today,"  pleaded  his  mother.  "Wait  until  you  get 
something  ready,  Eugene.  Wait  and  do  a  little  thinking  about 
it.  Wait  until  tomorrow." 

"I  want  to  go  today,  ma."  He  slipped  his  arm  around  her. 
"Little  ma."  He  was  bigger  than  she  by  now,  and  still  growing. 

"All  right,  Eugene,"  she  said  softly,  "but  I  wish  you  wouldn't." 
Her  boy  was  leaving  her — her  heart  was  hurt. 

"I  can  come  back,  ma.     It's  only  a  hundred  miles." 

"Well,  all  right,"  she  said  finally,  trying  to  brighten.  "I'll 
pack  your  bag." 

"I  have  already." 


36  THE    "GENIUS" 

She  went  to  look. 

"Well,  it'll  soon  be  time/'  said  Witla,  who  was  thinking  that 
Eugene  might  back  down.  "I'm  sorry.  Still  it  may  be  a  good 
thing  for  you.  You're  always  welcome  here,  you  know." 

"I  know,"  said  Eugene. 

They  went  finally  to  the  train  together,  he  and  his  father  and 
Myrtle.  His  mother  couldn't.  She  stayed  to  cry. 

On  the  way  to  the  depot  they  stopped  at  Sylvia's. 

"Why,  Eugene,"  she  exclaimed,  "how  ridiculous!     Don't  go." 

"He's  set,"  said  Witla. 

Eugene  finally  got  loose.  He  seemed  to  be  fighting  love,  home 
ties,  everything,  every  step  of  the  way.  Finally  he  reached  the 
depot.  The  train  came.  Witla  grabbed  his  hand  affectionately. 
"Be  a  good  boy,"  he  said,  swallowing  a  gulp. 

Myrtle  kissed  him.     "You're  so  funny,  Eugene.    Write  me." 

"I  will." 

He  stepped  on  the  train.  The  bell  rang.  Out  the  cars  rolled 
—out  and  on.  He  looked  out  on  the  familiar  scenes  and  then 
a  real  ache  came  to  him — Stella,  his  mother,  his  father,  Myrtle, 
the  little  home.  They  were  all  going  out  of  his  life. 

"Hm,"  he  half  groaned,  clearing  his  throat.    "Gee!" 

And  then  he  sank  back  and  tried,  as  usual,  not  to  think.  He 
must  succeed.  That's  what  the  world  was  made  for.  That  was 
what  he  was  made  for.  That  was  what  he  would  have  to  do.  , 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE  city  of  Chicago — who  shall  portray  it!  This  vast  ruck 
of  life  that  had  sprung  suddenly  into  existence  upon  the 
dank  marshes  of  a  lake  shore.  Miles  and  miles  of  dreary  little 
houses;  miles  and  miles  of  wooden  block-paved  streets,  with  gas 
lamps  placed  and  water  mains  laid,  and  empty  wooden  walks  set 
for  pedestrians;  the  beat  of  a  hundred  thousand  hammers;  the 
ring  of  a  hundred  thousand  trowels!  Long,  converging  lines  of 
telegraph  poles;  thousands  upon  thousands  of  sentinel  cottages, 
factory  plants,  towering  smoke  stacks,  and  here  and  there  a  lone, 
shabby  church  steeple,  sitting  out  pathetically  upon  vacant  land. 
The  raw  prairie  stretch  was  covered  with  yellow  grass ;  the  great 
broad  highways  of  the  tracks  of  railroads,  ten,  fifteen,  twenty, 
thirty,  laid  side  by  side  and  strung  with  thousands  upon  thou- 
sands of  shabby  cars,  like  beads  upon  a  string.  Engines  clang- 
ing, trains  moving,  people  waiting  at  street  crossings — pedes- 
trians, wagon  drivers,  street  car  drivers,  drays  of  beer,  trucks  of 
coal,  brick,  stone,  sand — a  spectacle  of  new,  raw,  necessary  life! 
As  Eugene  began  to  draw  near  it  he  caught  for  the  first  time 
the  sense  and  significance  of  a  great  city.  What  were  these 
newspaper  shadows  he  had  been  dealing  with  in  his  reading 
compared  to  this  vivid,  articulate,  eager  thing?  Here  was  the 
substance  of  a  new  world,  substantial,  fascinating,  different. 
The  handsome  suburban  station  at  South  Chicago,  the  first  of 
its  kind  he  had  ever  seen,  took  his  eye,  as  the  train  rolled  city- 
ward. He  had  never  before  seen  a  crowd  of  foreigners — work- 
ing men — and  here  were  Lithuanians,  Poles,  Czechs,  waiting 
for  a  local  train.  He  had  never  seen  a  really  large  factory  plant, 
and  here  was  one,  and  another,  and  another — steel  works,  pot- 
teries, soap-factories,  foundries,  all  gaunt  and  hard  in  the  Sun- 
day evening  air.  There  seemed  to  be,  for  all  it  was  Sunday, 
something  youthful,  energetic  and  alive  about  the  streets.  He 
noted  the  streetcars  waiting;  at  one  place  a  small  river  was 
crossed  on  a  draw, — dirty,  gloomy,  but  crowded  with  boats  and 
lined  with  great  warehouses,  grain  elevators,  coal  pockets — that 
architecture  of  necessity  and  utility.  His  imagination  was  fired 
by  this  for  here  was  something  that  could  be  done  brilliantly 
in  black — a  spot  of  red  or  green  for  ship  and  bridge  lights. 
There  were  some  men  on  the  magazines  who  did  things  like  this, 
only  not  so  vivid. 

37 


38  THE    "GENIUS" 

The  train  threaded  its  way  through  long  lines  of  cars  coming 
finally  into  an  immense  train  shed  where  arc  lights  were  splut- 
tering— a  score  under  a  great  curved  steel  and  glass  roof,  where 
people  were  hurrying  to  and  fro.  Engines  were  hissing;  bells 
clanging  raucously.  He  had  no  relatives,  no  soul  to  turn  to, 
but  somehow  he  did  not  feel  lonely.  This  picture  of  life,  this 
newness,  fascinated  him.  He  stepped  down  and  started  leisurely 
to  the  gate,  wondering  which  way  he  should  go.  He  came  to 
a  corner  where  a  lamp  post  already  lit  blazoned  the  name  Madi- 
son. He  looked  out  on  this  street  and  saw,  as  far  as  the  eye  could 
reach,  two  lines  of  stores,  jingling  horse  cars,  people  walking. 
What  a  sight,  he  thought,  and  turned  west.  For  three  miles  he 
walked,  musing,  and  then  as  it  was  dark,  and  he  had  arranged 
for  no  bed,  he  wondered  where  he  should  eat  and  sleep.  A  fat 
man  sitting  outside  a  livery  stable  door  in  a  tilted,  cane-seated 
chair  offered  a  possibility  of  information. 

"Do  you  know  where  I  can  get  a  room  around  here?"  asked 
Eugene. 

The  lounger  looked  him  over.  He  was  the  proprietor  of  the 
place. 

"There's  an  old  lady  living  over  there  at  seven-thirty-two," 
he  said,  "who  has  a  room,  I  think.  She  might  take  you  in." 
He  liked  Eugene's  looks. 

Eugene  crossed  over  and  rang  a  downstairs  bell.  The  door 
wras  opened  shortly  by  a  tall,  kindly  woman,  of  a  rather  ma- 
triarchal turn.  Her  hair  was  gray. 

"Yes?"  she  inquired. 

"The  gentleman  at  the  livery  stable  over  there  said  I  might 
get  a  room  here.  I'm  looking  for  one." 

She  smiled  pleasantly.  This  boy  looked  his  strangeness,  his 
wide-eyed  interest,  his  freshness  from  the  country.  "Come  in," 
she  said.  "I  have  a  room.  You  can  look  at  it." 

It  was  a  front  room — a  little  bed-room  off  the  one  main  living 
room,  clean,  simple,  convenient.  "This  looks  all  right,"  he 
said. 

She  smiled. 

"You  can  have  it  for  two  dollars  a  week,"  she  proffered. 

"That's  all  right,"  he  said,  putting  down  his  grip.  "I'll  take 
it." 

"Have  you  had  supper?"  she  asked. 

"No,  but  I'm  going  out  soon.  I  want  to  see  the  streets.  I'll 
find  some  place." 

"I'll  give  you  something,"  she  said. 


THE    "GENIUS"  39 

Eugene  thanked  her,  and  she  smiled.  This  was  what  Chicago 
did  to  the  country.  It  took  the  boys. 

He  opened  the  closed  shutters  of  his  window  and  knelt  before 
it,  leaning  on  the  sill.  He  looked  out  idly,  for  it  was  all  so  won- 
derful. Bright  lights  were  burning  in  store  windows.  These 
people  hurrying — how  their  feet  sounded — clap,  clap,  clap.  And 
away  east  and  away  west  it  was  all  like  this.  It  was  all  like 
this  everywhere,  a  great  big,  wonderful  city.  It  was  nice  to  be 
here.  He  felt  that  now.  It  was  all  worth  while.  How  could  he 
have  stayed  in  Alexandria  so  long!  He  would  get  along  here. 
Certainly  he  would.  He  was  perfectly  sure  of  that.  He  knew. 

Chicago  at  this  time  certainly  offered  a  world  of  hope  and 
opportunity  to  the  beginner.  It  was  so  new,  so  raw ;  everything 
was  in  the  making.  The  long  lines  of  houses  and  stores  were 
mostly  temporary  make-shifts — one  and  two  story  frame  affairs — 
with  here  and  there  a  three  and  four  story  brick  building  which 
spoke  of  better  days  to  come.  Down  in  the  business  heart  which 
lay  between  the  lake  and  the  river,  the  North  Side  and  the  South 
Side,  was  a  region  which  spoke  of  a  tremendous  future,  for  here 
were  stores  which  served  the  buying  public,  not  only  of  Chicago, 
but  of  the  Middle  West.  There  were  great  banks,  great  of- 
fice buildings,  great  retail  stores,  great  hotels.  The  section  was 
running  with  a  tide  of  people  which  represented  the  youth,  the 
illusions,  the  untrained  aspirations,  of  millions  of  souls.  When 
you  walked  into  this  area  you  could  feel  what  Chicago  meant — 
eagerness,  hope,  desire.  It  was  a  city  that  put  vitality  into  al- 
most every  wavering  heart:  it  made  the  beginner  dream  dreams; 
the  aged  to  feel  that  misfortune  was  never  so  grim  that  it  might 
not  change. 

Underneath,  of  course,  was  struggle.  Youth  and  hope  and 
energy  were  setting  a  terrific  pace.  You  had  to  work  here,  to 
move,  to  step  lively.  You  had  to  have  ideas.  This  city  demanded 
of  you  your  very  best,  or  it  would  have  little  to  do  writh  you. 
Youth  in  its  search  for  something — and  age — were  quickly  to 
feel  this.  It  wTas  no  fool's  paradise. 

Eugene,  once  he  was  settled,  realized  this.  He  had  the  notion, 
somehow,  that  the  printer's  trade  was  all  over  for  him.  He 
wanted  no  more  of  that.  He  wanted  to  te  an  artist  or  something 
like  that,  although  he  hardly  knew  how  to  begin.  The  papers 
offered  one  way,  but  he  was  not  sure  that  they  took  on  begin- 
ners. He  had  had  no  training  whatever.  His  sister  Myrtle  had 
once  said  that  some  of  his  little  thumb-nail  sketches  were  pretty, 
but  what  did  she  know?  If  he  could  study  somewhere,  find 


40  THE   *  'GENIUS" 

someone  who  would  teach  him.  .  .  .  Meanwhile  he  would  have 
to  work. 

He  tried  the  newspapers  first  of  course,  for  those  great  insti- 
tutions seemed  the  ideal  resort  for  anyone  who  wanted  to  get 
up  in  the  world,  but  the  teeming  offices  with  frowning  art  direc- 
tors and  critical  newspaper  workers  frightened  him.  One  art 
director  did  see  something  in  the  three  or  four  little  sketches  he 
showed,  but  he  happened  to  be  in  a  crusty  mood,  and  did  not 
want  anybody  anyway.  He  simply  said  no,  there  was  nothing. 
Eugene  thought  that  perhaps  as  an  artist  also,  he  was  destined 
to  be  a  failure. 

The  trouble  with  this  boy  was  really  that  he  was  not  half 
awake  yet.  The  beauty  of  life,  its  wonder,  had  cast  a  spell  over 
him,  but  he  could  not  yet  interpret  it  in  line  and  color.  He 
walked  about  these  wonderful  streets,  gazing  in  the  windows, 
looking  at  the  boats  on  the  river,  looking  at  the  ships  on  the 
lake.  One  day,  while  he  was  standing  on  the  lake  shore,  there 
came  a  ship  in  full  sail  in  the  offing — the  first  he  had  ever  seen. 
It  gripped  his  sense  of  beauty.  He  clasped  his  hands  nervously 
and  thrilled  to  it.  Then  he  sat  down  on  the  lake  wall  and  looked 
and  looked  and  looked  until  it  gradually  sank  below  the  horizon. 
So  this  was  how  the  great  lakes  were;  and  how  the  great  seas 
must  be — the  Atlantic  and  the  Pacific  and  the  Indian  Ocean. 
Ah,  the  sea!  Some  day,  perhaps  he  would  go  to  New  York. 
That  was  where  the  sea  was.  But  here  it  was  also,  in  miniature, 
and  it  was  wonderful. 

One  cannot  moon  by  lake  shores  and  before  store  windows 
and  at  bridge  draws  and  live,  unless  one  is  provided  with  the 
means  of  living,  and  this  Eugene  was  not.  He  had  determined 
when  he  left  home  that  he  would  be  independent.  He  wanted 
to  get  a  salary  in  some  way  that  he  could  at  least  live  on.  He 
wanted  to  write  back  and  be  able  to  say  that  he  was  getting 
along  nicely.  His  trunk  came,  and  a  loving  letter  from  his 
mother,  and  some  money,  but  he  sent  that  back.  It  was  only 
ten  dollars,  but  he  objected  to  beginning  that  way.  He  thought 
he  ought  to  earn  his  own  way,  and  he  wanted  to  try,  anyhow. 

After  ten  days  his  funds  were  very  low,  a  dollar  and  seventy- 
five  cents,  and  he  decided  that  any  job  would  have  to  do.  Never 
mind  about  art  or  type-setting  now.  He  could  not  get  the  last 
without  a  union  card,  he  must  take  anything,  and  so  he  applied 
from  store  to  store.  The  cheap  little  shops  in  which  he  asked 
were  so  ugly  they  hurt,  but  he  tried  to  put  his  artistic  sensibili- 
ties aside.  He  asked  for  anything,  to  be  made  a  clerk  in  a  bakery, 
in  a  dry  goods  store,  in  a  candy  store.  After  a  time  a  hardware 


THE   '"GENIUS"  41 

store  loomed  up,  and  he  asked  there.  The  man  looked  at  him 
curiously.  "I  might  give  you  a  place  at  storing  stoves." 

Eugene  did  not  understand,  but  he  accepted  gladly.  It  only 
paid  six  dollars  a  week,  but  he  could  live  on  that.  He  was 
shown  to  a  loft  in  charge  of  two  rough  men,  stove  fitters,  polish- 
ers, and  repairers,  who  gruffly  explained  to  him  that  his  work 
was  to  brush  the  rust  off  the  decayed  stoves,  to  help  piece  and 
screw  them  together,  to  polish  and  lift  things,  for  this  was  a 
second  hand  stove  business  which  bought  and  repaired  stoves 
from  junk  dealers  all  over  the  city.  Eugene  had  a  low  bench 
near  a  window  where  he  was  supposed  to  do  his  polishing,  but 
he  very  frequently  wasted  his  time  here  looking  out  into  the 
green  yards  of  some  houses  in  a  side  street.  The  city  was  full 
of  wonder  to  him — its  every  detail  fascinating.  When  a  rag- 
picker would  go  by  calling  "rags,  old  iron,"  or  a  vegetable  vender 
crying  "tomatoes,  potatoes,  green  corn,  peas,"  he  would  stop  and 
listen,  the  musical  pathos  of  the  cries  appealing  to  him.  Alex- 
andria had  never  had  anything  like  this.  It  was  all  so  strange. 
He  saw  himself  making  pen  and  ink  sketches  of  things,  of  the 
clothes  lines  in  the  back  yards  and  of  the  maids  with  baskets. 

On  one  of  the  days  when  he  thought  he  was  working  fairly 
well  (he  had  been  there  two  weeks),  one  of  the  two  repairers 
said,  "Hey,  get  a  move  on  you.  You're  not  paid  to  look  out  the 
window."  Eugene  stopped.  He  had  not  realized  that  he  was 
loafing. 

"What  have  you  got  to  do  with  it?"  he  asked,  hurt  and  half 
defiant.  He  was  under  the  impression  that  he  was  working 
with  these  men,  not  under  them. 

"I'll  show  you,  you  fresh  kid,"  said  the  older  of  the  two,  who 
was  an  individual  built  on  the  order  of  "Bill  Sykes."  "You're 
under  me.  You  get  a  move  on  you,  and  don't  give  me  any  more 
of  your  lip." 

Eugene  was  startled.  It  was  a  flash  of  brutality  out  of  a  clear 
sky.  The  animal,  whom  he  had  been  scanning  as  an  artist  would, 
as  a  type,  out  of  the  corner  of  his  eye,  was  revealing  himself. 

"You  go  to  the  devil,"  said  Eugene,  only  half  awake  to  the 
grim  reality  of  the  situation. 

"What's  that!"  exclaimed  the  man,  making  for  him.  He 
gave  him  a  shove  toward  the  wall,  and  attempted  to  kick  him 
with  his  big,  hob-nailed  boot.  Eugene  picked  up  a  stove  leg.  His 
face  was  wax  white. 

"Don't  you  try  that  again,"  he  said  darkly.  He  fixed  the  leg 
in  his  hand  firmly. 

"Call  it  off,  Jim,"  said  the  other  man,  who  saw  the  useless- 


42  THE    "GENIUS" 

ness  of  so  much  temper.  "Don't  hit  him.  Send  him  down  stairs 
if  you  don't  like  him." 

"You  get  to  hell  out  of  here,  then,"  said  Eugene's  noble  su- 
perior. 

Eugene  walked  to  a  nail  where  his  hat  and  coat  were,  carry- 
ing the  stove  leg.  He  edged  past  his  assailant  cautiously,  fear- 
ing a  second  attack.  The  man  was  inclined  to  kick  at  him  again 
because  of  his  stubbornness,  but  forebore. 

"You're  too  fresh,  Willie.  You  want  to  wake  up,  you  dough 
face,"  he  said  as  Eugene  went. 

Eugene  slipped  out  quietly.  His  spirit  was  hurt  and  torn. 
What  a  scene !  He,  Eugene  Witla,  kicked  at,  and  almost  kicked 
out,  and  that  in  a  job  that  paid  six  dollars  a  week.  A  great 
lump  came  up  in  his  throat,  but  it  went  down  again.  He  wanted 
to  cry  but  he  could  not.  He  went  downstairs,  stovepolish  on  his 
hands  and  face  and  slipped  up  to  the  desk. 

"I  want  to  quit,"  he  said  to  the  man  who  had  hired  him. 

"All  right,  what's  the  matter?" 

"That  big  brute  up  there  tried  to  kick  me,"  he  explained. 

"They're  pretty  rough  men,"  answered  the  employer.  "I 
was  afraid  you  wouldn't  get  along.  I  guess  you're  not  strong 
enough.  Here  you  are."  He  laid  out  three  dollars  and  a  half. 
Eugene  wondered  at  this  queer  interpretation  of  his  complaint. 
He  must  get  along  with  these  men?  They  musn't  get  along 
with  him?  So  the  city  had  that  sort  of  brutality  in  it. 

He  went  home  and  washed  up,  and  then  struck  out  again,  for 
it  was  no  time  now  to  be  without  a  job.  After  a  week  he  found 
one, — as  a  house  runner  for  a  real  estate  concern,  a  young  man 
to  bring  in  the  numbers  of  empty  houses  and  post  up  the  "For 
Rent"  signs  in  the  windows.  It  paid  eight  dollars  and  seemed 
to  offer  opportunities  of  advancement.  Eugene  might  have  stayed 
there  indefinitely  had  it  not  failed  after  three  months.  He  had 
reached  the  season  of  fall  clothes  then,  and  the  need  of  a  winter 
overcoat,  but  he  made  no  complaint  to  his  family.  He  wanted 
to  appear  to  be  getting  along  well,  whether  he  was  or  not. 

One  of  the  things  which  tended  to  harden  and  sharpen  his  im- 
pressions of  life  at  this  time  was  the  show  of  luxury  seen  in 
some  directions.  On  Michigan  Avenue  and  Prairie  Avenue, 
on  Ashland  Avenue  and  Washington  Boulevard,  were  sections 
which  were  crowded  with  splendid  houses  such  as  Eugene  had 
never  seen  before.  He  was  astonished  at  the  magnificence  of  their 
appointments,  the  beauty  of  the  lawns,  the  show  of  the  windows, 
the  distinction  of  the  equipages  which  accompanied  them  and 
served  them.  For  the  first  time  in  his  life  he  saw  liveried  foot- 


THE    ''GENIUS'  43 

men  at  doors :  he  saw  at  a  distance  girls  and  women  grown  who 
seemed  marvels  of  beauty  to  him — they  were  so  distinguished  in 
their  dress;  he  saw  young  men  carrying  themselves  with  an  air 
of  distinction  which  he  had  never  seen  before.  These  must  be 
the  society  people  the  newspapers  were  always  talking  about. 
His  mind  made  no  distinctions  as  yet.  If  there  were  fine  clothes, 
fine  trappings,  of  course  social  prestige  went  with  them.  It  made 
him  see  for  the  first  time  what  far  reaches  lay  between  the  con- 
ditions of  a  beginner  from  the  country  and  what  the  world  really 
had  to  offer — or  rather  what  it  showered  on  some  at  the  top.  It 
subdued  and  saddened  him  a  little.  Life  was  unfair. 

These  fall  days,  too,  with  their  brown  leaves,  sharp  winds, 
scudding  smoke  and  whirls  of  dust  showed  him  that  the  city 
could  be  cruel.  He  met  shabby  men,  sunken  eyed,  gloomy,  hag- 
gard, who  looked  at  him,  apparently  out  of  a  deep  despair.  These 
creatures  all  seemed  to  be  brought  where  they  were  by  difficult 
circumstances.  If  they  begged  at  all, — and  they  rarely  did  of 
him,  for  he  did  not  look  prosperous  enough, — it  was  with  the 
statement  that  unfortunate  circumstances  had  brought  them 
where  they  were.  You  could  fail  so  easily.  You  could  really 
starve  if  you  didn't  look  sharp, — the  city  quickly  taught  him  that. 

During  these  days  he  got  immensely  lonely.  He  was  not  very 
sociable,  and  too  introspective.  He  had  no  means  of  making 
friends,  or  thought  he  had  none.  So  he  wandered  about  the 
streets  at  night,  marveling  at  the  sights  he  saw,  or  staying  at 
home  in  his  little  room.  Mrs.  Woodruff,  the  landlady,  was  nice 
and  motherly  enough,  but  she  was  not  young  and  did  not  fit  into 
his  fancies.  He  was  thinking  about  girls  and  how  sad  it  was  not 
to  have  one  to  say  a  word  to  him.  Stella  was  gone — that  dream 
was  over.  When  would  he  find  another  like  her? 

After  wandering  around  for  nearly  a  month,  during  which 
time  he  was  compelled  to  use  some  money  his  mother  sent  him 
to  buy  a  suit  of  clothes  on  an  instalment  plan,  he  got  a  place  as 
driver  of  a  laundry,  which,  because  it  paid  ten  dollars  a  week, 
seemed  very  good.  He  sketched  now  and  then  when  he  was  not 
tired,  but  what  he  did  seemed  pointless.  So  he  worked  here, 
driving  a  wagon,  when  he  should  have  been  applying  for  an  art 
opening,  or  taking  art  lessons. 

During  this  winter  Myrtle  wrote  him  that  Stella  Appleton  had 
moved  to  Kansas,  whither  her  father  had  gone;  and  that  his 
mother's  health  was  bad,  and  that  she  did  so  want  him  to  come 
home  and  stay  awhile.  It  was  about  this  time  that  he  became  ac- 
quainted with  a  little  Scotch  girl  named  Margaret  Duff,  who 
worked  in  the  laundry,  and  became  quickly  involved  in  a  rela- 


44  THE    "GENIUS' 

tionship  which  established  a  precedent  in  his  experiences  with 
women.  Before  this  he  had  never  physically  known  a  girl.  Now, 
and  of  a  sudden,  he  was  plunged  into  something  which  awakened 
a  new,  and  if  not  evil,  at  least  disrupting  and  disorganizing  pro- 
pensity of  his  character.  He  loved  women,  the  beauty  of  the 
curves  of  their  bodies.  He  loved  beauty  of  feature  and  after  a 
while  was  to  love  beauty  of  mind, — he  did  now,  in  a  vague,  un- 
formed way, — but  his  ideal  was  as  yet  not  clear  to  him.  Mar- 
garet Duff  represented  some  simplicity  of  attitude,  some  gen- 
erosity of  spirit,  some  shapeliness  of  form,  some  comeliness  of 
feature, — it  was  not  more.  But,  growing  by  what  it  fed  on, 
his  sex  appetite  became  powerful.  In  a  few  weeks  it  had  almost 
mastered  him.  He  burned  to  be  with  this  girl  daily — and  she 
was  perfectly  willing  that  he  should,  so  long  as  the  relationship 
did  not  become  too  conspicuous.  She  was  a  little  afraid  of  her 
parents,  although  those  two,  being  working  people,  retired  early 
and  slept  soundly.  They  did  not  seem  to  mind  her  early  philan- 
derings  with  boys.  This  latest  one  was  no  novelty.  It  burned 
fiercely  for  three  months — Eugene  was  eager,  insatiable :  the  girl 
not  so  much  so,  but  complaisant.  She  liked  this  evidence  of 
fire  in  him, — the  hard,  burning  flame  she  had  aroused,  and  yet 
after  a  time  she  got  a  little  tired.  Then  little  personal  dif- 
ferences arose, — differences  of  taste,  differences  of  judgment, 
differences  of  interest.  He  really  could  not  talk  to  her  of  any- 
thing serious,  could  not  get  a  response  to  his  more  delicate  emo- 
tions. For  her  part  she  could  not  find  in  him  any  ready  appre- 
ciation of  the  little  things  she  liked — theater  jests,  and  the  bright 
remarks  of  other  boys  and  girls.  She  had  some  conception  of 
what  was  tasteful  in  dress,  but  as  for  anything  else,  art,  litera- 
ture, public  affairs,  she  knew  nothing  at  all,  while  Eugene, 
for  all  his  youth,  was  intensely  alive  to  what  was  going  on  in 
the  great  world.  The  sound  of  great  names  and  great  fames 
was  in  his  ears, — Carlyle,  Emerson,  Thoreau,  Whitman.  He 
read  of  great  philosophers,  painters,  musicians,  meteors  that  sped 
across  the  intellectual  sky  of  the  western  world,  and  he  won- 
dered. He  felt  as  though  some  day  he  would  be  called  to  do 
something — in  his  youthful  enthusiasm  he  half-thought  it  might 
be  soon.  He  knew  that  this  girl  he  was  trifling  with  could  not 
hold  him.  She  had  lured  him,  but  once  lured  he  was  master, 
judge,  critic.  He  was  beginning  to  feel  that  he  could  get  along 
without  her, — that  he  could  find  someone  better. 

Naturally  such  an  attitude  would  make  for  the  death  of  pas- 
sion, as  the  satiation  of  passion  would  make  for  the  development 
of  such  an  attitude.  Margaret  became  indifferent.  She  re- 


THE    "GENIUS"  45 

sented  his  superior  airs,  his  top-lofty  tone  at  times.  They  quar- 
reled over  little  things.  One  night  he  suggested  something  that 
she  ought  to  do  in  the  haughty  manner  customary  with  him. 

"Oh,  don't  be  so  smart!"  she  said.  "You  always  talk  as 
though  you  owned  me." 

"I  do/'  he  said  jestingly. 

"Do  you?"  she  flared.    "There  are  others." 

"Well,  whenever  you're  ready  you  can  have  them.  I'm  will- 
ing." 

The  tone  cut  her,  though  actually  it  was  only  an  ill-timed 
bit  of  teasing,  more  kindly  meant  than  it  sounded. 

"Well,  I'm  ready  now.  You  needn't  come  to  see  me  unless 
you  want  to.  I  can  get  along." 

She  tossed  her  head. 

"Don't  be  foolish,  Margy,"  he  said,  seeing  the  ill  wind  he  had 
aroused.  "You  don't  mean  that." 

"Don't  I?  Well,  we'll  see."  She  walked  away  from  him  to 
another  corner  of  the  room.  He  followed  her,  but  her  anger 
re-aroused  his  opposition.  "Oh,  all  right,"  he  said  after  a  time. 
"I  guess  I'd  better  be  going." 

She  made  no  response,  neither  pleas  nor  suggestions.  He  went 
and  secured  his  hat  and  coat  and  came  back.  "Want  to  kiss  me 
good-bye?"  he  inquired. 

"No,"  she  said  simply. 

"Good-night,"  he  called. 

"Good-night,"  she  replied  indifferently. 

The  relationship  was  never  amicably  readjusted  after  this, 
although  it  did  endure  for  some  time. 


CHAPTER  V 

FOR  the  time  being  this  encounter  stirred  to  an  almost  un- 
bridled degree  Eugene's  interest  in  women.  Most  men  are 
secretly  proud  of  their  triumph  with  woman — their  ability  to 
triumph — and  any  evidence  of  their  ability  to  attract,  entertain, 
hold,  is  one  of  those  things  which  tends  to  give  them  an  air  of 
superiority  and  self-sufficiency  which  is  sometimes  lacking  in 
those  who  are  not  so  victorious.  This  was,  in  its  way,  his  first 
victory  of  the  sort,  and  it  pleased  him  mightily.  He  felt  much 
more  sure  of  himself  instead  of  in  any  way  ashamed.  What,  he 
thought,  did  the  silly  boys  back  in  Alexandria  know  of  life  com- 
pared to  this?  Nothing.  He  was  in  Chicago  now.  The  world 
was  different.  He  was  finding  himself  to  be  a  man,  free,  in- 
dividual, of  interest  to  other  personalities.  Margaret  Duff  had 
told  him  many  pretty  things  about  himself.  She  had  compli- 
mented his  looks,  his  total  appearance,  his  taste  in  the  selection 
of  particular  things.  He  had  felt  what  it  is  to  own  a  woman. 
He  strutted  about  for  a  time,  the  fact  that  he  had  been  dismissed 
rather  arbitrarily  having  little  weight  with  him  because  he  was 
so  very  ready  to  be  dismissed,  sudden  dissatisfaction  with  his  job 
now  stirred  up  in  him,  for  ten  dollars  a  week  was  no  sum  where- 
with any  self-respecting  youth  could  maintain  himself, — par- 
ticularly with  a  view  to  sustaining  any  such  relationship  as  that 
which  had  just  ended.  He  felt  that  he  ought  to  get  a  better 
place. 

Then  one  day  a  woman  to  whom  he  was  delivering  a  parcel 
at  her  home  in  Warren  Avenue,  stopped  him  long  enough  to  ask: 
"What  do  you  drivers  get  a  week  for  your  work?" 

"I  get  ten  dollars,"  said  Eugene.     "I  think  some  get  more." 

"You  ought  to  make  a  good  collector,"  she  went  on.  She 
was  a  large,  homely,  incisive,  straight-talking  woman.  "Would 
you  like  to  change  to  that  kind  of  work?" 

Eugene  was  sick  of  the  laundry  business.  The  hours  were 
killing.  He  had  worked  as  late  as  one  o'clock  Sunday  morning. 

"I  think  I  would,"  he  exclaimed.  "I  don't  know  anything 
about  it,  but  this  work  is  no  fun." 

"My  husband  is  the  manager  of  The  People's  Furniture  Com- 
pany," she  went  on.  "He  needs  a  good  collector  now  and  then. 
I  think  he's  going  to  make  a  change  very  soon.  I'll  speak  to 
him." 

46 


THE    "GENIUS'  47 

Eugene  smiled  joyously  and  thanked  her.  This  was  surely 
a  windfall.  He  was  anxious  to  know  what  collectors  were  paid 
but  he  thought  it  scarcely  tactful  to  ask. 

"If  he  gives  you  a  job  you  will  probably  get  fourteen  dollars 
to  begin  with,"  she  volunteered. 

Eugene  thrilled.  That  would  be  really  a  rise  in  the  world. 
Four  dollars  more !  He  could  get  some  nice  clothes  out  of  that 
and  have  spending  money  besides.  He  might  get  a  chance  to 
study  art.  His  visions  began  to  multiply.  One  could  get 
up  in  the  world  by  trying.  The  energetic  delivery  he  had 
done  for  this  laundry  had  brought  him  this.  Further  effort 
in  the  other  field  might  bring  him  more.  And  he  was  young  yet. 

He  had  been  working  for  the  laundry  company  for  six  months. 
Six  weeks  later,  Mr.  Henry  Mitchly,  manager  of  the  People's 
Furniture,  wrote  him  care  of  the  laundry  company  to  call  at  his 
home  any  evening  after  eight  and  he  would  see  him.  "My  wife 
has  spoken  to  me  of  you,"  he  added. 

Eugene  complied  the  same  day  that  he  received  the  note,  and 
was  looked  over  by  a  lean,  brisk,  unctuous  looking  man  of 
forty,  who  asked  him  various  questions  as  to  his  work,  his  home, 
how  much  money  he  took  in  as  a  driver,  and  what  not.  Finally 
he  said,  "I  need  a  bright  young  man  down  at  my  place.  It's  a 
good  job  for  one  who  is  steady  and  honest  and  hardworking. 
My  wife  seems  to  think  you  work  pretty  well,  so  I'm  willing 
to  give  you  a  trial.  I  can  put  you  to  work  at  fourteen  dollars. 
I  want  you  to  come  to  see  me  a  week  from  Monday." 

Eugene  thanked  him.  He  decided,  on  Mr.  Mitchly's  advice,  to 
give  his  laundry  manager  a  full  week's  notice.  He  told  Mar- 
garet that  he  was  leaving  and  she  was  apparently  glad  for  his 
sake.  The  management  was  slightly  sorry,  for  Eugene  was  a 
good  driver.  During  his  last  week  he  helped  break  in  a  new 
man  in  his  place,  and  on  Monday  appeared  before  Mr.  Mitchly. 

Mr.  Mitchly  was  glad  to  have  him,  for  he  had  seen  him  as  a 
young  man  of  energy  and  force.  He  explained  the  simple  nature 
of  the  work,  which  was  to  take  bills  for  clocks,  silverware,  rugs, 
anything  which  the  company  sold,  and  go  over  the  various  routes 
collecting  the  money  due, — which  would  average  from  seventy 
five  to  a  hundred  and  twenty-five  dollars  a  day.  "Most  com- 
panies in  our  line  require  a  bond,"  he  explained,  "but  we  haven't 
come  to  that  yet.  I  think  I  know  honest  young  men  when  I  see 
them.  Anyhow  we  have  a  system  of  inspection.  If  a  man's  in- 
clined to  be  dishonest  he  can't  get  very  far  with  us." 

Eugene  had  never  thought  of  this  question  of  honesty  very 
much.  He  had  been  raised  where  he  did  not  need  to  worry  about 


48  THE   '"GENIUS" 

the  matter  of  a  little  pocket  change,  and  he  had  made  enough  at 
the  Appeal  to  supply  his  immediate  wants.  Besides,  among  the 
people  he  had  always  associated  with  it  was  considered  a  very 
right  and  necessary  thing  to  be  honest.  Men  were  arrested  for 
not  being.  He  remembered  one  very  sad  case  of  a  boy  he  knew 
being  arrested  at  Alexandria  for  breaking  into  a  store  at  night. 
That  seemed  a  terrible  thing  to  him  at  the  time.  Since  then 
he  had  been  speculating  a  great  deal,  in  a  vague  way  as  to  what 
honesty  was,  but  he  had  not  yet  decided.  He  knew  that  it  was 
expected  of  him  to  account  for  the  last  penny  of  anything  that 
was  place'd  in  his  keeping  and  he  wras  perfectly  willing  to  do  so. 
The  money  he  earned  seemed  enough  if  he  had  to  live  on  it. 
There  was  no  need  for  him  to  aid  in  supporting  anyone  else. 
So  he  slipped  along  rather  easily  and  practically  untested. 

Eugene  took  the  first  day's  package  of  bills  as  laid  out  for  him, 
and  carefully  went  from  door  to  door.  In  some  places  money 
was  paid  him  for  which  he  gave  a  receipt,  in  others  he  was  put 
off  or  refused  because  of  previous  difficulties  with  the  company. 
In  a  number  of  places  people  had  moved,  leaving  no  trace  of 
themselves,  and  packing  the  unpaid  for  goods  with  them.  It  was 
his  business,  as  Mr.  Mitchly  explained,  to  try  to  get  track  of 
them  from  the  neighbors. 

Eugene  saw  at  once  that  he  was  going  to  like  the  work.  The 
fresh  air,  the  out-door  life,  the  walking,  the  quickness  with  which 
his  task  was  accomplished,  all  pleased  him.  His  routes  took  him 
into  strange  and  new  parts  of  the  city,  where  he  had  never  been 
before,  and  introduced  him  to  types  he  had  never  met.  His 
laundry  work,  taking  him  from  door  to  door,  had  been  a  fresh- 
ening influence,  and  this  was  another.  He  saw  scenes  that  he 
felt  sure  he  could,  wrhen  he  had  learned  to  draw  a  little  better, 
make  great  things  of, — dark,  towering  factory-sites,  great 
stretches  of  railroad  yards  laid  out  like  a  puzzle  in  rain,  snow, 
or  bright  sunlight;  great  smoke-stacks  throwing  their  black 
heights  athwart  morning  or  evening  skies.  He  liked  them  best 
in  the  late  afternoon  when  they  stood  out  in  a  glow  of  red  or 
fading  purple.  "Wonderful/'  he  used  to  exclaim  to  himself, 
and  think  how  the  world  would  marvel  if  he  could  ever  come  to 
do  great  pictures  like  those  of  Dore.  He  admired  the  man's 
tremendous  imagination.  He  never  thought  of  himself  as  doing 
anything  in  oils  or  water  colors  or  chalk — only  pen  and  ink,  and 
that  in  great,  rude  splotches  of  black  and  white.  That  was 
the  way.  That  was  the  way  force  was  had. 

But  he  could  not  do  them.     He  could  only  think  them. 

One  of  his  chief  joys  was  the  Chicago  river,  its  black,  mucky 


THE  "GENIUS'1  49 

water  churned  by  puffing  tugs  and  its  banks  lined  by  great  red 
grain  elevators  and  black  coal  chutes  and  yellow  lumber  yards. 
Here  was  real  color  and  life — the  thing  to  draw ;  and  then  there 
were  the  low,  drab,  rain-soaked  cottages  standing  in  lonely, 
shabby  little  rows  out  on  flat  prairie  land,  perhaps  a  scrubby 
tree  somewhere  near.  He  loved  these.  He  would  take  an 
envelope  and  try  to  get  the  sense  of  them — the  feel,  as  he  called 
it — but  it  wouldn't  come.  All  he  did  seemed  cheap  and  common- 
place, mere  pointless  lines  and  stiff  wooden  masses.  How  did 
the  great  artists  get  their  smoothness  and  ease?  He  wondered. 


CHAPTER  VI 

EUGENE  collected  and  reported  faithfully  every  day,  and 
had  managed  to  save  a  little  money.  Margaret  was  now 
a  part  of  his  past.  His  landlady,  Mrs.  Woodruff,  had  gone  to 
live  with  a  daughter  in  Sedalia,  Missouri,  and  he  had  moved  to 
a  comparatively  nice  house  in  East  Twenty-first  Street  on  the 
South  Side.  It  had  taken  his  eye  because  of  a  tree  in  a  fifty 
foot  space  of  ground  before  it.  Like  his  other  room  it  cost  him 
little,  and  he  wras  in  a  private  family.  He  arranged  a  twenty 
cent  rate  per  meal  for  such  meals  as  he  took  there,  and  thus 
he  managed  to  keep  his  bare  living  expenses  down  to  five  dollars 
a  week.  The  remaining  nine  he  spent  sparingly  for  clothes,  car- 
fare, and  amusements — almost  nothing  of  the  latter.  When  he 
saw  he  had  a  little  money  in  reserve  he  began  to  think  of  looking 
up  the  Art  Institute,  which  had  been  looming  up  in  his  mind 
as  an  avenue  of  advancement,  and  find  out  on  what  condition 
he  could  join  a  night  class  in  drawing.  They  were  very  rea- 
sonable, he  heard,  only  fifteen  dollars  a  quarter,  and  he  de- 
cided to  begin  if  the  conditions  were  not  too  severe.  He  was 
beginning  to  be  convinced  that  he  was  born  to  be  an  artist — 
how  soon  he  could  not  tell. 

The  old  Art  Institute,  which  preceded  the  present  impressive 
structure,  was  located  at  Michigan  Avenue  and  Monroe  Street, 
and  presented  an  atmosphere  of  distinction  which  was  not  pres- 
ent in  most  of  the  structures  representing  the  public  taste  of 
the  period.  It  was  a  large  six  storey  building  of  brown  stone, 
and  contained  a  number  of  studios  for  painters,  sculptors,  and 
music  teachers,  besides  the  exhibition  rooms  and  the  rooms  for 
the  classes.  There  were  both  day  and  evening  classes,  and 
even  at  that  time  a  large  number  of  students.  The  western 
soul,  to  a  certain  extent,  was  fired  by  the  wonder  of  art.  There 
was  so  little  of  it  in  the  life  of  the  people — the  fame  of  those 
who  could  accomplish  things  in  this  field  and  live  in  a  more 
refined  atmosphere  was  great.  To  go  to  Paris!  To  be  a 
student  in  any  one  of  the  great  ateliers  of  that  city!  Or  of 
Munich  or  Rome,  to  know  the  character  of  the  artistic  treasures 
of  Europe — the  life  of  the  Art  quarter — that  was  something. 
There  was  what  might  have  been  termed  a  wild  desire  in  the 
breast  of  many  an  untutored  boy  and  girl  to  get  out  of  the 
ranks  of  the  commonplace;  to  assume  the  character  and  the 

50 


THE    "GENIUS"  51 

habiliments  of  the  artistic  temperament  as  they  were  then  sup- 
posed to  be;  to  have  a  refined,  semi-languorous,  semi-indifferent 
manner;  to  live  in  a  studio,  to  have  a  certain  freedom  in  morals 
and  temperament  not  accorded  to  the  ordinary  person — these 
were  the  great  things  to  do  and  be.  Of  course,  art  composition 
was  a  part  of  this.  You  were  supposed  ultimately  to  paint 
great  pictures  or  do  noble  sculptures,  but  in  the  meanwhile 
you  could  and  should  live  the  life  of  the  artist.  And  that 
was  beautiful  and  wonderful  and  free. 

Eugene  had  long  had  some  sense  of  this.  He  was  aware 
that  there  were  studios  in  Chicago;  that  certain  men  were 
supposed  to  be  doing  good  work — he  saw  it  in  the  papers. 
There  were  mentions  now  and  then  of  exhibitions,  mostly  free, 
which  the  public  attended  but  sparingly.  Once  there  was  an 
exhibition  of  some  of  the  war  pictures  of  Verestchagin,  a  great 
Russian  painter  who  had  come  West  for  some  purpose.  Eugene 
saw  them  one  Sunday  afternoon,  and  was  enthralled  by  the 
magnificence  of  their  grasp  of  the  elements  of  battle;  the 
wonder  of  color;  the  truth  of  character;  the  dramatic  quality; 
the  sense  of  force  and  danger  and  horror  and  suffering  which 
was  somehow  around  and  in  and  through  everything  that 
was  shown.  This  man  had  virility  and  insight;  stupendous 
imagination  and  temperament.  Eugene  stood  and  stared,  won- 
dering how  such  things  could  be  done.  Ever  afterward  the 
name  of  Verestchagin  was  like  a  great  call  to  his  imagination; 
that  was  the  kind  of  an  artist  to  be  if  you  were  going  to  be 
one. 

Another  picture  came  there  once,  which  appealed  to  another 
side  of  his  nature,  although  primarily  the  basis  of  its  appeal  was 
artistic.  It  was  a  great,  warm  tinted  nude  by  Bouguereau, 
a  French  artist  who  was  startling  his  day  with  his  daring  por- 
trayal of  the  nude.  The  types  he  depicted  were  not  namby- 
pamby  little  slim-bodied  women  with  spindling  qualities  of 
strength  and  passion,  but  great,  full-blown  women  whose  volup- 
tuous contour  of  neck  and  arms  and  torso  and  hip  and  thigh  was 
enough  to  set  the  blood  of  youth  at  fever  heat.  The  man 
obviously  understood  and  had  passion,  love  of  form,  love  of 
desire,  love  of  beauty.  He  painted  with  a  sense  of  the  bridal 
bed  in  the  background;  of  motherhood  and  of  fat,  growing 
babies,  joyously  nursed.  These  women  stood  up  big  in  their 
sense  of  beauty  and  magnetism,  the  soft  lure  of  desire  in  their 
eyes,  their  full  lips  parted,  their  cheeks  flushed  with  the  blood 
of  health.  As  such  they  were  anathema  to  the  conservative 
and  puritanical  in  mind,  the  religious  in  temperament,  the 


52  THE   "GENIUS" 

cautious  in  training  or  taste.  The  very  bringing  of  this  picture 
to  Chicago  as  a  product  for  sale  was  enough  to  create  a  furore 
of  objection.  Such  pictures  should  not  be  painted,  was  the  cry 
of  the  press;  or  if  painted,  not  exhibited.  Bouguereau  was 
conceived  of  by  many  as  one  of  those  dastards  of  art  who  were 
endeavoring  to  corrupt  by  their  talent  the  morals  of  the  world  ; 
there  was  a  cry  raised  that  the  thing  should  be  suppressed;  and 
as  is  always  the  case  in  all  such  outbursts  of  special  class 
opposition,  the  interest  of  the  general  public  was  aroused. 

Eugene  was  one  of  those  who  noted  the  discussion.  He 
had  never  seen  a  picture  by  Bouguereau  or,  indeed,  an  original 
nude  by  any  other  artist.  Being  usually  at  liberty  after  three 
o'clock,  he  was  free  to  visit  some  of  these  things,  and  having 
found  it  possible  to  do  his  work  in  good  clothes  he  had  come  to 
wear  his  best  suit  every  day.  He  was  a  fairly  presentable  youth 
with  a  solemn  mien,  and  his  request  to  be  shown  anything  in 
any  art  store  would  have  aroused  no  surprise.  He  looked 
as  though  he  belonged  to  the  intellectual  and  artistic  classes. 

Not  being  sure  of  what  reception  would  be  accorded  one 
so  young — he  was  now  nearing  twenty — he  nevertheless  ventured 
to  stop  at  the  gallery  where  the  Bouguereau  was  being  exhibited 
and  ask  to  see  it.  The  attendant  in  charge  eyed  him  curiously, 
but  led  him  back  to  a  room  hung  in  dark  red,  and  turning 
on  a  burst  of  incandescent  bulbs  set  in  the  ceiling  of  a  red 
plush  hung  cabinet,  pulled  back  the  curtain  revealing  the  picture. 
Eugene  had  never  seen  such  a  figure  and  face.  It  was  a  dream 
of  beauty — his  ideal  come  to  life.  He  studied  the  face  and 
neck,  the  soft  mass  of  brown,  sensuous  hair  massed  at  the  back 
of  the  head,  the  flowerlike  lips  and  soft  cheeks.  He  marveled  at 
the  suggestion  of  the  breasts  and  the  abdomen,  that  potentiality 
of  motherhood  that  is  so  firing  to  the  male.  He  could  have 
stood  there  hours  dreaming,  luxuriating,  but  the  attendant  who 
had  left  him  alone  with  it  for  a  few  minutes  returned. 

"What  is  the  price  of  this?"  Eugene  asked. 

"Ten  thousand  dollars/'  was  the  reply. 

He  smiled  solemnly.  "It's  a  wonderful  thing,"  he  said,  and 
turned  to  go.  The  attendant  put  out  the  light. 

This  picture,  like  those  of  Verestchagin,  made  a  sharp  impres- 
sion on  him.  Curiously  he  had  no  longing  to  paint  anything  of 
this  kind.  He  only  rejoiced  to  look  at  it.  It  spoke  to  him  of 
his  present  ideal  of  womanhood — physical  beauty,  and  he 
longed  with  all  his  heart  to  find  a  creature  like  that  who  would 
look  on  him  with  favor. 

There  were  other  exhibitions — one  containing  a  genuine  Rem- 


THE   ''GENIUS?1  53 

brandt — which  impressed  him,  but  none  like  these  that  had  defi- 
nitely stirred  him.  His  interest  in  art  was  becoming  eager. 
He  wanted  to  find  out  all  about  it — to  do  something  himself. 
One  day  he  ventured  to  call  at  the  Art  Institute  building  and 
consult  the  secretary,  who  explained  to  him  \vhat  the  charges 
were.  He  learned  from  her,  for  she  was  a  woman  of  a  prac- 
tical, clerical  turn,  that  the  classes  ran  from  October  to  May, 
that  he  could  enter  a  life  or  antique  class  or  both,  though 
the  antique  alone  was  advisable  for  the  time,  and  a  class  in 
illustration,  where  costumes  of  different  periods  were  presented 
on  different  models.  He  found  that  each  class  had  an  in- 
structor of  supposed  note,  whom  it  was  not  necessary  for  him  to 
see.  Each  class  had  a  monitor  and  each  student  was  supposed 
to  work  faithfully  for  his  own  benefit.  Eugene  did  not  get  to 
see  the  class  rooms,  but  he  gained  a  sense  of  the  art  of  it  all, 
nevertheless,  for  the  halls  and  offices  were  decorated  in  an  artistic 
way,  and  there  were  many  plaster  casts  of  arms,  legs,  busts,  and 
thighs  and  heads.  It  was  as  though  one  stood  in  an  open  doorway 
and  looked  out  upon  a  new  world.  The  one  thing  that  gratified 
him  was  that  he  could  study  pen  and  ink  or  brush  in  the  illus- 
tration class,  and  that  he  could  also  join  a  sketch  class  from 
five  to  six  every  afternoon  without  extra  charges  if  he  preferred 
to  devote  his  evening  hours  to  studying  drawing  in  the  life 
class.  He  was  a  little  astonished  to  learn  from  a  printed 
prospectus  given  him  that  the  life  class  meant  nude  models  to 
work  from — both  men  and  women.  He  was  surely  approach- 
ing a  different  world  now.  It  seemed  necessary  and  natural 
enough,  and  yet  there  was  an  aloof  atmosphere  about  it,  some- 
thing that  suggested  the  inner  precincts  of  a  shrine,  to  which 
only  talent  was  admitted.  Was  he  talented?  Wait!  He 
would  show  the  world,  even  if  he  was  a  raw  country  boy. 

The  classes  which  he  decided  to  enter  were  first  a  life 
class  which  convened  Monday,  Wednesday  and  Friday  evenings 
at  seven  in  one  of  the  study  rooms  and  remained  in  session  until 
ten  o'clock,  and  second  a  sketch  class  which  met  from  five 
to  six  every  afternoon.  Eugene  felt  that  he  knew  little  or  noth- 
ing about  figure  and  anatomy  and  had  better  work  at  that.  Cos- 
tume and  illustration  would  have  to  wait,  and  as  for  the  land- 
scapes, or  rather  city-scapes,  of  which  he  was  so  fond,  he  could 
afford  to  defer  those  until  he  learned  something  of  the  funda- 
mentals of  art. 

Heretofore  he  had  rarely  attempted  the  drawing  of  a  face 
or  figure  except  in  miniature  and  as  details  of  a  larger  scene. 
Now  he  was  confronted  with  the  necessity  of  sketching  in  char- 


54  THE    "GENIUS' 

coal  the  head  or  body  of  a  living  person,  and  it  frightened  him 
a  little.  He  knew  that  he  would  be  in  a  class  with  fifteen 
or  twenty  other  male  students.  They  would  be  able  to  see  and 
comment  on  what  he  was  doing.  Twice  a  week  an  instructor 
would  come  around  and  pass  upon  his  work.  There  were 
honors  for  those  who  did  the  best  work  during  any  one  month, 
he  learned  from  the  prospectus,  namely:  first  choice  of  seats 
around  the  model  at  the  beginning  of  each  new  pose.  The 
class  instructors  must  be  of  considerable  significance  in  the 
American  art  world,  he  thought,  for  they  were  N.  A.'s,  and  that 
meant  National  Academicians.  He  little  knew  with  what  con- 
tempt this  honor  was  received  in  some  quarters,  or  he  would 
not  have  attached  so  much  significance  to  it. 

One  Monday  evening  in  October,  armed  with  the  several 
sheets  of  paper  which  he  had  been  told  to  purchase  by  his  all- 
informing  prospectus,  he  began  his  work.  He  was  a  little  nervous 
at  sight  of  the  brightly  lighted  halls  and  class  rooms,  and  the 
moving  crowd  of  young  men  and  women  did  not  tend  to  allay 
his  fears.  He  was  struck  at  once  with  the  quality  of  gaiety, 
determination  and  easy  grace  which  marked  the  different  members 
of  this  company.  The  boys  struck  him  as  interesting,  virile, 
in  many  cases  good  looking;  the  girls  as  graceful,  rather  dash- 
ing and  confident.  One  or  two  whom  he  noted  were  beautiful 
in  a  dark  way.  This  was  a  wonderful  world. 

The  rooms  too,  were  exceptional.  They  were  old  enough 
in  use  to  be  almost  completely  covered,  as  to  the  walls, 
with  the  accumulation  of  paint  scraped  from  the  palettes. 
There  were  no  easels  or  other  paraphernalia,  but  simply 
chairs  and  little  stools — the  former,  as  Eugene  learned, 
to  be  turned  upside  down  for  easels,  the  latter  for  the  students 
to  sit  on.  In  the  center  of  the  room  was  a  platform,  the 
height  of  an  ordinary  table,  for  the  model  to  pose  on,  and  in 
one  corner  a  screen  which  constituted  a  dressing  room.  There 
were  no  pictures  or  statuary — just  the  bare  walls — but  curiously, 
in  one  corner,  a  piano.  Out  in  the  halls  and  in  the  general 
lounging  center  \vere  pictures  of  nude  figures  or  parts  of 
figures  posed  in  all  sorts  of  ways  which  Eugene,  in  his  raw, 
youthful  way,  thought  suggestive.  He  secretly  rejoiced  to 
look  at  them  but  he  felt  that  he  must  not  say  anything  about 
what  he  thought.  An  art  student,  he  felt  sure,  must  appear  to 
be  indifferent  to  such  suggestion — to  be  above  such  desire. 
They  were  here  to  work,  not  to  dream  of  women. 

When  the  time  came  for  the  classes  to  assemble  there  was  a 
scurrying  to  and  fro,  conferring  between  different  students,  and 


THE!  "GENIUS"  55 

then  the  men  found  themselves  in  one  set  of  rooms  and  the 
women  in  another.  Eugene  saw  a  young  girl  in  his  room, 
sitting  up  near  the  screen,  idly  gazing  about.  She  was  pretty, 
of  a  slightly  Irish  cast  of  countenance,  with  black  hair  and 
black  eyes.  She  wore  a  cap  that  was  an  imitation  of  the  Polish 
national  head-dress,  and  a  red  cape.  Eugene  assumed  her  to  be 
the  class  model  and  secretly  wondered  if  he  was  really  to  see 
her  in  the  nude.  In  a  few  minutes  all  the  students  were 
gathered,  and  then  there  was  a  stir  as  there  strolled  in  a  rather 
vigorous  and  picturesque  man  of  thirty-six  or  thereabouts,  who 
sauntered  to  the  front  of  the  room  and  called  the  class  to  order. 
He  was  clad  in  a  shabby  suit  of  grey  tweed  and  crowned  with  a 
little  brown  hat,  shoved  rakishly  over  one  ear,  which  he  did  not 
trouble  to  take  off.  He  wore  a  soft  blue  hickory  shirt  without 
collar  or  tie,  and  looked  immensely  self-sufficient.  He  was  tall 
and  lean  and  raw-boned,  with  a  face  which  was  long  and  nar- 
row; his  eyes  were  large  and  wide  set,  his  mouth  big  and  firm 
in  its  lines;  he  had  big  hands  and  feet,  and  an  almost  rolling 
gait.  Eugene  assumed  instinctively  that  this  was  Mr.  Temple 
Boyle,  N.  A.,  the  class  instructor,  and  he  imagined  there 
would  be  an  opening  address  of  some  kind.  But  the  instructor 
merely  announced  that  Mr.  William  Ray  had  been  appointed 
monitor  and  that  he  hoped  that  there  would  be  no  disorder 
or  wasting  of  time.  There  would  be  regular  criticism  days  by 
him — Wednesdays  and  Fridays.  He  hoped  that  each  pupil 
would  be  able  to  show  marked  improvement.  The  class  would 
now  begin  work.  Then  he  strolled  out. 

Eugene  soon  learned  from  one  of  the  students  that  this  really 
was  Mr.  Boyle.  The  young  Irish  girl  had  gone  behind  the 
screen.  Eugene  could  see  partially,  from  where  he  was  sitting, 
that  she  wTas  disrobing.  It  shocked  him  a  little,  but  he  kept 
his  courage  and  his  countenance  because  of  the  presence  of  so 
many  others.  He  turned  a  chair  unside  down  as  he  saw  the 
others  do,  and  sat  down  on  a  stool.  His  charcoal  was  lying 
in  a  little  box  beside  him.  He  straightened  his  paper  on  its 
board  and  fidgeted,  keeping  as  still  as  he  could.  Some  of  the 
students  were  talking.  Suddenly  he  saw  the  girl  divest  herself 
of  a  thin,  gauze  shirt,  and  the  next  moment  she  came  out,  naked 
and  composed,  to  step  upon  the  platform  and  stand  perfectly 
erect,  her  arms  by  her  side,  her  head  thrown  back.  Eugene 
tingled  and  blushed  and  was  almost  afraid  to  look  directly  at 
her.  Then  he  took  a  stick  of  charcoal  and  began  sketching 
feebly,  attempting  to  convey  something  of  this  personality  and 
this  pose  to  paper.  It  seemed  a  wonderful  thing  for  him  to  be 


56  THE    "GENIUS" 

doing — to  be  in  this  room,  to  see  this  girl  posing  so;  in  short, 
to  be  an  art  student.  So  this  was  what  it  was,  a  world  absolutely 
different  from  anything  he  had  ever  known.  And  he  was  self- 
called  to  be  a  member  of  it. 


CHAPTER  VII 

IT  was  after  he  had  decided  to  enter  the  art  class  that  Eugene 
paid  his  first  visit  to  his  family.  Though  they  were  only  a 
hundred  miles  away,  he  had  never  felt  like  going  back,  even 
at  Christmas.  Now  it  seemed  to  him  he  had  something  definite 
to  proclaim.  He  was  going  to  be  an  artist;  and  as  to  his  work, 
he  was  getting  along  well  in  that.  Mr.  Mitchly  appeared  to  like 
him.  It  was  to  Mr.  Mitchly  that  he  reported  daily  with  his 
collections  and  his  unsatisfied  bills.  The  collections  were  checked 
up  by  Mr.  Mitchly  with  the  cash,  and  the  unpaid  bills  certified. 
Sometimes  Eugene  made  a  mistake,  having  too  much  or  too  little, 
but  the  "too  much"  was  always  credited  against  the  "too  little," 
so  that  in  the  main  he  came  out  even.  In  money  matters  there 
was  no  tendency  on  Eugene's  part  to  be  dishonest.  He  thought 
of  lots  of  things  he  wanted,  but  he  was  fairly  well  content  to 
wait  and  come  by  them  legitimately.  It  was  this  note  in  him 
that  appealed  to  Mitchly.  He  thought  that  possibly  something 
could  be  made  of  Eugene  in  a  trade  way. 

He  left  the  Friday  night  preceding  Labor  Day,  the  first 
Monday  in  September,  which  was  a  holiday  throughout  the 
city.  He  had  told  Mr.  Mitchly  that  he  thought  of  leaving 
Saturday  after  work  for  over  Sunday  and  Monday,  but  Mr. 
Mitchly  suggested  that  he  might  double  up  his  Saturday's  work 
with  Thursday's  and  Friday's  if  he  wished,  and  go  Friday 
evening. 

"Saturday's  a  short  day,  anyhow,"  he  said.  "That  would  give 
three  days  at  home  and  still  you  wouldn't  be  behind  in  your 
work." 

Eugene  thanked  his  employer  and  did  as  suggested.  He 
packed  his  bag  with  the  best  he  had  in  the  way  of  clothes,  and 
journeyed  homeward,  wondering  how  he  would  find  things. 
How  different  it  all  was!  Stella  was  gone.  His  youthful 
unsophistication  had  passed.  He  could  go  home  as  a  city  man 
with  some  prospects.  He  had  no  idea  of  how  boyish  he  looked 
— how  much  the  idealist  he  was — how  far  removed  from  hard, 
practical  judgment  which  the  world  values  so  highly. 

When  the  train  reached  Alexandria,  his  father  and  Myrtle 
and  Sylvia  were  at  the  depot  to  greet  him — the  latter  with 
her  two  year  old  son.  They  had  all  come  down  in  the  family 
carryall,  which  left  one  seat  for  Eugene.  He  greeted  them 

57 


58  THE   "GENIUS" 

warmly  and  received  their  encomiums  on  his  looks  with  a 
befitting  sense  of  humility. 

"You're  bigger,"  his  father  exclaimed.  "You're  going  to 
be  a  tall  man  after  all,  Eugene.  I  was  afraid  you  had  stopped 
growing." 

"I  hadn't  noticed  that  I  had  grown  any,"  said  Eugene. 

"Ah,  yes,"  put  in  Myrtle.  "You're  much  bigger,  Gene.  It 
makes  you  look  a  little  thinner.  Are  you  good  and  strong?" 

"I  ought  to  be,"  laughed  Eugene.  "I  walk  about  fifteen  or 
twenty  miles  a  day,  and  I'm  out  in  the  air  all  the  time.  If 
I  don't  get  strong  now  I  never  will." 

Sylvia  asked  him  about  his  "stomach  trouble."  About  the 
same,  he  told  her.  Sometimes  he  thought  it  was  better,  some- 
times worse.  A  doctor  had  told  him  to  drink  hot  water  in  the 
morning  but  he  didn't  like  to  do  it.  It  was  so  hard  to  swallow 
the  stuff. 

While  they  were  talking,  asking  questions,  they  reached  the 
front  gate  of  the  house,  and  Mrs.  Witla  came  out  on  the 
front  porch.  Eugene,  at  sight  of  her  in  the  late  dusk,  jumped 
over  the  front  wheel  and  ran  to  meet  her. 

"Little  ma,"  he  exclaimed.  "Didn't  expect  me  back  so  soon, 
did  you?" 

"So  soon,"  she  said,  her  arms  around  his  neck.  Then  she 
held  him  so,  quite  still  for  a  few  moments.  "You're  getting 
to  be  a  big  man,"  she  said  when  she  released  him. 

He  went  into  the  old  sitting  room  and  looked  around.  It  was 
all  quite  the  same — no  change.  There  were  the  same  books, 
the  same  table,  the  same  chairs,  the  same  pulley  lamp  hanging 
from  the  center  of  the  ceiling.  In  the  parlor  there  was  nothing 
new,  nor  in  the  bed  rooms  or  the  kitchen.  His  mother  looked 
a  little  older — his  father  not.  Sylvia  had  changed  greatly — 
being  slightly  "peaked"  in  the  face  compared  to  her  former 
plumpness;  it  was  due  to  motherhood,  he  thought.  Myrtle 
seemed  a  little  more  calm  and  happy.  She  had  a  real  ^steady" 
now,  Frank  Bangs,  the  superintendent  of  the  local  furniture 
factory.  He  was  quite  young,  good-looking,  going  to  be  well-off 
some  day,  so  they  thought.  "Old  Bill,"  one  of  the  big  horses, 
had  been  sold.  Rover,  one  of  the  two  collies,  was  dead.  Jake 
the  cat  had  been  killed  in  a  night  brawl  somewhere. 

Somehow,  as  Eugene  stood  in  the  kitchen  watching  his  mother 
fry  a  big  steak  and  make  biscuits  and  gravy  in  honor  of  his 
coming,  he  felt  that  he  did  not  belong  to  this  world  any  more.  It 
was  smaller,  narrower  than  he  had  ever  thought.  The  town 
had  seemed  smaller  as  he  had  come  through  its  streets,  the  houses 


THE   "GENIUS"  59 

too;  and  yet  it  was  nice.  The  yards  were  sweet  and  simple, 
but  countrified.  His  father,  running  a  sewing  machine  business, 
seemed  tremendously  limited.  He  had  a  country  or  small  town 
mind.  It  struck  Eugene  as  curious  now,  that  they  had  never  had 
a  piano.  And  Myrtle  liked  music,  too.  As  for  himself,  he  had 
learned  that  he  was  passionately  fond  of  it.  There  were  organ 
recitals  in  the  Central  Music  Hall,  of  Chicago,  on  Tuesday  and 
Friday  afternoons,  and  he  had  managed  to  attend  some  after 
his  work.  There  were  great  preachers  like  Prof.  Swing  and  the 
Rev.  H.  W.  Thomas  and  the  Rev  F.  W.  Gunsaulus  and  Prof. 
Saltus,  liberal  thinkers  all,  whose  public  services  in  the  city 
were  always  accompanied  by  lovely  music.  Eugene  had  found  all 
these  men  and  their  services  in  his  search  for  life  and  to  avoid 
being  lonely.  Now  they  had  taught  him  that  his  old  world 
was  no  world  at  all.  It  was  a  small  town.  He  would  never 
come  to  this  any  more. 

After  a  sound  night's  rest  in  his  old  room  he  went  down  the 
next  day  to  see  Mr.  Caleb  Williams  at  the  Appeal  office,  and 
Mr.  Burgess,  and  Jonas  Lyle,  and  John  Summers.  As  he 
went,  on  the  court  house  square  he  met  Ed  Mitchell  and  George 
Taps  and  Will  Groniger,  and  four  or  five  others  whom  he 
had  known  in  school.  From  them  he  learned  how  things  were. 
It  appeared  that  George  Anderson  had  married  a  local  girl 
and  was  in  Chicago,  working  out  in  the  stock  yards.  Ed 
Waterbury  had  gone  to  San  Francisco.  The  pretty  Sampson 
girl,  Bessie  Sampson,  who  had  once  gone  with  Ted  Martin- 
wood  so  much,  had  run  away  with  a  man  from  Anderson,  In- 
diana. There  had  been  a  lot  of  talk  about  it  at  the  time. 
Eugene  listened. 

It  all  seemed  less,  though,  than  the  new  world  that  he  had 
entered.  Of  these  fellows  none  knew  the  visions  that  were  now 
surging  in  his  brain.  Paris — no  less — and  New  York — by 
what  far  route  he  could  scarcely  tell.  And  Will  Groniger  had 
got  to  b*e  a  baggage  clerk  at  one  of  the  two  depots  and  was 
proud  of  it.  Good  Heavens! 

At  the  office  of  the  Appeal  things  were  unchanged.  Some- 
how Eugene  had  had  the  feeling  that  two  years  would  make 
a  lot  of  difference,  whereas  the  difference  was  in  him  only. 
He  was  the  one  who  had  undergone  cataclysmic  changes.  He 
had  a  been  a  stove  polisher,  a  real  estate  assistant,  a  driver  and 
a  collector.  He  had  known  Margaret  Duff,  and  Mr.  Red- 
wood, of  the  laundry,  and  Mr.  Mitchly.  The  great  city  had 
dawned  on  him;  Verestchagin,  and  Bouguereau,  and  the  Art 
Institute.  He  was  going  on  at  one  pace,  the  town  was  moving 


60  THE   "GENIUS'2 

at  another  one — a  slower,    but  quite  as  fast  as  it  had  ever  gone. 

Caleb  Williams  was  there,  skipping  about  as  of  yore,  cheer- 
ful, communicative,  interested.  "I'm  glad  to  see  you  back, 
Eugene,"  he  declared,  fixing  him  with  the  one  good  eye  which 
watered.  "I'm  glad  you're  getting  along — that's  fine.  Going  to 
be  an  artist,  eh  ?  Well,  I  think  that's  what  you  were  cut  out  for. 
I  wouldn't  advise  every  young  fellow  to  go  to  Chicago,  but 
that's  where  you  belong.  If  it  wasn't  for  my  wife  and  three 
children  I  never  would  have  left  it.  When  you  get  a  wife 
and  family  though — "  he  paused  and  shook  his  head.  "I  gad! 
You  got  to  do  the  best  you  can."  Then  he  went  to  look  up 
some  missing  copy. 

Jonas  Lyle  was  as  portly,  phlegmatic  and  philosophic  as  ever. 
He  greeted  Eugene  with  a  solemn  eye  in  which  there  was  in- 
quiry. "Well,  how  is  it?"  he  asked. 

Eugene  smiled.    "Oh,  pretty  good." 

"Not  going  to  be  a  printer,  then?" 

"No,  I  think  not." 

"Well,  it's  just  as  well,  there're  an  awful  lot  of  them." 

While  they  were  talking  John  Summers  sidled  up. 

"How  are  you,   Mr.  Witla?"  he  inquired. 

Eugene  looked  at  him.  John  was  certainly  marked  for  the 
grave  in  the  near  future.  He  was  thinner,  of  a  bluish-grey 
color,  bent  at  the  shoulders. 

"Why,  I'm  fine,  Mr.  Summers,"  Eugene  said. 

"I'm  not  so  good,"  said  the  old  printer.  He  tapped  his 
chest  significantly.  "This  thing's  getting  the  best  of  me." 

"Don't  you  believe  it,"  put  in  Lyle.  "John's  always  gloomy. 
He's  just  as  good  as  ever.  I  tell  him  he'll  live  twenty  years 
yet."  ' 

"No,  no,"  said  Summers,  shaking  his  head,  "I  knowr." 

He  left  after  a  bit  to  "go  across  the  street,"  his  customary 
drinking  excuse. 

"He  can't  last  another  year,"  Lyle  observed  the  moment  the 
door  was  closed.  "Burgess  only  keeps  him  because  it  would 
be  a  shame  to  turn  him  out.  But  he's  done  for." 

"Anyone  can  see  that,"  said  Eugene.     "He  looks  terrible." 

So  they  talked. 

At  noon  he  went  home.  Myrtle  announced  that  he  was  to 
come  with  her  and  Mr.  Bangs  to  a  party  that  evening.  There 
were  going  to  be  games  and  refreshments.  It  never  occurred 
to  him  that  in  this  town  there  had  never  been  dancing  among  the 
boys  and  girls  he  moved  with,  and  scarcely  any  music.  People 
did  not  have  pianos — or  at  least  only  a  few  of  them. 


THE    "GENIUS"  61 

After  supper  Mr.  Bangs  called,  and  the  three  of  them  went  to 
a  typical  small  town  party.  It  was  not  much  different  from 
the  ones  Eugene  had  attended  with  Stella,  except  that  the 
participants  were,  in  the  main,  just  that  much  older.  Two 
years  make  a  great  deal  of  difference  in  youth.  There  wrere 
some  twenty-two  young  men  and  women  all  crowded  into 
three  fair  sized  rooms  and  on  a  porch,  the  windows  and  doors 
leading  to  which  were  open.  Outside  were  brown  grass  and 
some  autumn  flowers.  Early  crickets  were  chirping,  and  there 
were  late  fire-flies.  It  was  warm  and  pleasant. 

The  opening  efforts  to  be  sociable  were  a  little  stiff.  There 
were  introductions  all  around,  much  smart  badinage  among  town 
dandies,  for  most  of  them  were  here.  There  were  a  number  of 
new  faces — girls  who  had  moved  in  from  other  towns  or 
blossomed  into  maturity  since  Eugene  had  left. 

"If  you'll  marry  me,  Madge,  I'll  buy  you  a  nice  new  pair 
of  seal  skin  earrings,0  he  heard  one  of  the  young  bloods  re- 
mark. 

Eugene  smiled,  and  the  girl  laughed  back.  "He  always  thinks 
he's  so  cute." 

It  was  almost  impossible  for  Eugene  to  break  through  the 
opening  sense  of  reserve  which  clogged  his  actions  at  every- 
thing in  the  way  of  social  diversion.  He  was  a  little  nervous  be- 
cause he  was  afraid  of  criticism.  That  was  his  vanity  and 
deep  egotism.  He  stood  about,  trying  to  get  into  the  swing  of  the 
thing  with  a  bright  remark  or  two.  Just  as  he  was  beginning 
to  bubble,  a  girl  came  in  from  one  of  the  other  rooms.  Eugene 
had  not  met  her.  She  was  with  his  prospective  brother-in-law, 
Bangs,  and  was  laughing  in  a  sweet,  joyous  way  which  ar- 
rested his  attention.  She  was  dressed  in  white,  he  noticed, 
with  a  band  of  golden  brown  ribbon  pulled  through  the  loops 
above  the  flounces  at  the  bottom  of  her  dress.  Her  hair  was  a 
wonderful  ashen  3'ellow,  a  great  mass  of  it — and  laid  in  big,  thick 
braids  above  her  forehead  and  ears.  Her  nose  was  straight,  her 
lips  were  thin  and  red,  her  cheek-bones  faintly  but  curiously 
noticeable.  Somehow  there  was  a  sense  of  distinction  about  her 
— a  faint  aroma  of  personality  which  Eugene  did  not  under- 
stand. It  appealed  to  him. 

Bangs  brought  her  over.  He  was  a  tight,  smiling  youth,  as 
sound  as  oak,  as  clear  as  good  water. 

"Here's  Miss  Blue,  Eugene.  She's  from  up  in  Wisconsin, 
and  comes  down  to  Chicago  occasionally.  I  told  her  you  ought 
to  know  her.  You  might  meet  up  there  sometime." 

"Say,  but  that's  good  luck,  isn't  it?"  smiled  Eugene.   "I'm 


62  THE   "GENIUS'5 

sure  I'm  glad  to  know  you.  What  part  of  Wisconsin  do  you 
come  from?" 

"Blackwood,"  she  laughed,  her  greenish-blue  eyes  dancing. 

"Her  hair  is  yellow,  her  eyes  are  blue,  and  she  comes  from 
Blackwood,"  commented  Bangs.  "How's  that?"  His  big 
mouth,  with  its  even  teeth,  was  wide  with  a  smile. 

"You  left  out  the  blue  name  and  the  white  dress.  She  ought 
to  wear  white  all  the  time." 

"Oh,  it  does  harmonize  with  my  name,  doesn't  it?"  she 
cried.  "At  home  I  do  wear  white  mostly.  You  see  I'm  just 
a  country  girl,  and  I  make  most  of  my  things." 

"Did  you  make  that?"  asked  Eugene. 

"Of  course  I  did." 

Bangs  moved  away  a  little,  looking  at  her  as  if  critically. 
"Well,  that's  really  pretty,"  he  pronounced. 

"Mr.  Bangs  is  such  a  flatterer,"  she  smiled  at  Eugene.  "He 
doesn't  mean  any  thing  he  says.  He  just  tells  me  one  thing 
after  another." 

"He's  right,"  said  Eugene.  "I  agree  as  to  the  dress,  and 
it  fits  the  hair  wonderfully." 

"You  see,  he's  lost,  too,"  laughed  Bangs.  "That's  the  way 
they  all  do.  Well,  I'm  going  to  leave  you  two.  I've  got  to 
get  back.  I  left  your  sister  in  the  hands  of  a  rival  of  mine." 

Eugene  turned  to  this  girl  and  laughed  his  reserved  laugh. 
"I  was  just  thinking  what  was  going  to  become  of  me.  I've 
been  away  for  two  years,  and  I've  lost  track  of  some  of  these 
people." 

"I'm  worse  yet.  I've  only  been  here  two  weeks  and  I  scarcely 
know  anybody.  Mrs.  King  takes  me  around  everywhere,  but 
it's  all  so  new  I  can't  get  hold  of  it.  I  think  Alexandria  is  lovely." 

"It  is  nice.     I  suppose  you've  been  out  on  the  lakes?" 

"Oh,  yes.  We've  fished  and  rowed  and  camped.  I  have 
had  a  lovely  time  but  I  have  to  go  back  tomorrow." 

"Do  you?"  said  Eugene.  "Why  I  do  too.  I'm  going  to  take 
the  four-fifteen." 

"So  am  I!"  she  laughed.     "Perhaps  we  can  go  together." 

"Why,  certainly.  That's  fine.  I  thought  I'd  have  to  go 
back  alone.  I  only  came  down  for  over  Sunday.  I've  been 
working  up  in  Chicago." 

They  fell  to  telling  each  other  their  histories.  She  was  from 
Blackwood,  only  eighty-five  miles  from  Chicago,  and  had  lived 
there  all  her  life.  There  were  several  brothers  and  sisters.  Her 
father  was  evidently  a  farmer  and  politician  and  what  not,  and 
Eugene  gleaned  from  stray  remarks  that  they  must  be  well 


THE    "  GENIUS'  63 

thought  of,  though  poor.  One  brother-in-law  was  spoken  of 
as  a  banker;  another  as  the  owner  of  a  grain  elevator;  she 
herself  was  a  school  teacher  at  Blackwood — had  been  for  several 
years. 

>  Eugene  did  not  realize  it,  but  she  was  fully  five  years  older 
than  himself,  with  the  tact  and  the  superior  advantage  which 
so  much  difference  in  years  brings.  She  was  tired  of  school- 
teaching,  tired  of  caring  for  the  babies  of  married  sisters,  tired 
of  being  left  to  work  and  stay  at  home  when  the  ideal  marrying 
age  was  rapidly  passing.  She  was  interested  in  able  people, 
and  silly  village  boys  did  not  appeal  to  her.  There  was  one 
wrho  was  begging  her  to  marry  him  at  this  moment,  but  he  was 
a  slow  soul  up  in  Blackwood,  not  actually  worthy  of  her  nor 
able  to  support  her  well.  She  was  hopefully,  sadly,  vaguely, 
madly  longing  for  something  better,  and  as  yet  nothing  had 
ever  turned  up.  This  meeting  with  Eugene  was  not  anything 
which  promised  a  way  out  to  her.  She  was  not  seeking  so 
urgently — nor  did  she  give  introductions  that  sort  of  a  twist 
in  her  consciousness.  But  this  young  man  had  an  appeal  for 
her  beyond  anyone  she  had  met  recently.  They  were  in  sym- 
pathetic accord,  apparently.  She  liked  his  clear,  big  eyes,  his 
dark  hair,  his  rather  waxen  complexion.  He  seemed  something 
better  than  she  had  known,  and  she  hoped  that  he  would  be 
nice  to  her. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE  rest  of  that  evening  Eugene  spent  not  exactly  with,  but 
near  Miss  Blue — Miss  Angela  Blue,  as  he  found  her  name 
to  be.  He  was  interested  in  her  not  so  much  from  the  point  of 
view  of  looks,  though  she  was  charming  enough,  but  because 
of  some  peculiarity  of  temperament  which  lingered  with  him 
as  a  grateful  taste  might  dwell  on  the  palate.  He  thought  her 
young;  and  was  charmed  by  what  he  considered  her  innocence 
and  unsophistication.  As  a  matter  of  fact  she  was  not  so  much 
young  and  unsophisticated  as  an  unconscious  simulator  of  sim- 
plicity. In  the  conventional  sense  she  was  a  thoroughly  good 
girl,  loyal,  financially  honest,  truthful  in  all  commonplace  things, 
and  thoroughly  virtuous,  moreover,  in  that  she  considered  mar- 
riage and  children  the  fate  and  duty  of  all  women.  Having 
had  so  much  trouble  with  other  peoples'  children  she  was  not 
anxious  to  have  any,  or  at  least  many,  of  her  own.  Of  course, 
she  did  not  believe  that  she  would  escape  with  what  seemed 
to  be  any  such  good  fortune.  She  fancied  that  she  would  be 
like  her  sisters,  the  wife  of  a  good  business  or  professional  man; 
the  mother  of  three  or  four  or  five  healthy  children;  the  keeper 
of  an  ideal  middle  class  home;  the  handmaiden  of  her  hus- 
band's needs.  There  was  a  deep  current  of  passion  in  her  which 
she  had  come  to  feel  would  never  be  satisfied.  No  man  would 
ever  understand,  no  man  at  least  whom  she  was  likely  to  meet; 
but  she  knew  she  had  a  great  capacity  to  love.  If  someone  would 
only  come  along  and  arouse  that — be  worthy  of  it — what  a 
whirlwind  of  affection  she  would  return  to  him !  How  she  would 
love,  how  sacrifice!  But  it  seemed  now  that  her  dreams  were 
destined  never  to  be  fulfilled,  because  so  much  time  had  slipped 
by  and  she  had  not  been  courted  by  the  right  one.  So  here  she 
was  now  at  twenty-five,  dreaming  and  longing — the  object  of  her 
ideals  thus  accidentally  brought  before  her,  and  no  immediate 
consciousness  that  that  was  the  case. 

It  does  not  take  sexual  affinity  long  to  manifest  itself,  once  its 
subjects  are  brought  near  to  each  other.  Eugene  was  older  in 
certain  forms  of  knowledge,  broader  in  a  sense,  potentially 
greater  than  she  would  ever  comprehend;  but  nevertheless, 
swayed  helplessly  by  emotion  and  desire.  Her  own  emotions, 
though  perhaps  stronger  than  his,  were  differently  aroused.  The 
stars,  the  night,  a  lovely  scene,  any  exquisite  attribute  of  nature 

64 


THE    "GENIUS'  65 

could  fascinate  him  to  the  point  of  melancholy.  With  her,  na- 
ture in  its  largest  aspects  passed  practically  unnoticed.  She  re- 
sponded to  music  feelingly,  as  did  Eugene.  In  literature,  only 
realism  appealed  to  him;  for  her,  sentiment,  strained  though  not 
necessarily  unreal,  had  the  greatest  charm.  Art  in  its  purely 
aesthetic  forms  meant  nothing  at  all  to  her.  To  Eugene  it  was 
the  last  word  in  the  matter  of  emotional  perception.  History, 
philosophy,  logic,  psychology,  were  sealed  books  to  her.  To 
Eugene  they  were  already  open  doors,  or,  better  yet,  flowery 
paths  of  joy,  down  which  he  was  wandering.  Yet  in  spite  of 
these  things  they  were  being  attracted  toward  each  other. 

And  there  were  other  differences.  With  Eugene  convention 
meant  nothing  at  all,  and  his  sense  of  evil  and  good  was  some- 
thing which  the  ordinary  person  would  not  have  comprehended. 
He  was  prone  to  like  all  sorts  and  conditions  of  human  beings — 
the  intellectual,  the  ignorant,  the  clean,  the  dirty,  the  gay,  the 
sorrowful,  white,  yellow,  black.  As  for  Angela,  she  had  a 
distinct  preference  for  those  who  conducted  themselves  accord- 
ing to  given  standards  of  propriety.  She  was  brought  up  to 
think  of  those  people  as  best  who  worked  the  hardest,  denied 
themselves  the  most,  and  conformed  to  the  ordinary  notions  of 
right  and  wrong.  There  was  no  questioning  of  current  standards 
in  her  mind.  As  it  was  written  socially  and  ethically  upon  the 
tables  of  the  law,  so  was  it.  There  might  be  charming  char- 
acters outside  the  pale,  but  they  were  not  admitted  to  associa- 
tion or  sympathy.  To  Eugene  a  human  being  was  a  human 
being.  The  ruck  of  misfits  or  ne'er-do-wells  he  could  laugh 
joyously  with  or  at.  It  was  all  wonderful,  beautiful,  amusing. 
Even  its  grimmess  and  tragedy  were  worth  while,  although  they 
hurt  him  terribly  at  times.  Why,  under  these  circumstances,  he 
should  have  been  so  thoroughly  attracted  to  Angela  remains  a 
mystery.  Perhaps  they  complemented  each  other  at  this  time  as 
a  satellite  complements  a  larger  luminary — for  Eugene's  egoism 
required  praise,  sympathy,  feminine  coddling;  and  Angela  caught 
fire  from  the  warmth  and  geniality  of  his  temperament. 

On  the  train  next  day  Eugene  had  nearly  three  hours  of  what 
he  deemed  most  delightful  talk  with  her.  They  had  not  journeyed 
far  before  he  had  told  her  how  he  had  traveled  this  way,  on  this 
train,  at  this  hour,  two  years  before;  how  he  had  walked  about 
the  streets  of  the  big  city,  looking  for  a  place  to  sleep,  how  he 
had  got  work  and  stayed  away  until  he  felt  that  he  had  found 
himself.  Now  he  was  going  to  study  art  and  then  to  New  York 
or  Paris,  and  do  magazine  illustrating  and  possibly  paint  pictures. 
He  was  truly  your  flamboyant  youth  of  talent  when  he  got  to 


66  THE  "GENIUS*1 

talking — when  he  had  a  truly  sympathetic  ear.  He  loved  to 
boast  to  someone  who  really  admired  him,  and  he  felt  that  he 
had  admiration  here.  Angela  looked  at  him  with  swimming 
eyes.  He  was  really  different  from  anything  she  had  ever 
known,  young,  artistic,  imaginative,  ambitious.  He  was  going 
out  into  a  world  which  she  had  longed  for  but  never  hoped  to 
see — that  of  art.  Here  he  was  telling  her  of  his  prospective  art 
studies,  and  talking  of  Paris.  What  a  wonderful  thing! 

As  the  train  neared  Chicago  she  explained  that  she  would  have 
to  make  an  almost  immediate  connection  with  one  which  left  over 
the  Chicago  Milwaukee  and  St.  Paul,  for  Blackwood.  She 
was  a  little  lonely,  to  tell  the  truth,  a  little  sick  at  heart,  for 
the  summer  vacation  was  over  and  she  was  going  back  to 
teach  school.  Alexandria,  for  the  two  weeks  she  had  been 
there  visiting  Mrs.  King  (formerly  a  Blackwood  girl  and  school- 
day  chum  of  hers),  was  lovely.  Her  girlhood  friend  had  tried 
to  make  things  most  pleasant  and  now  it  was  all  over.  Even 
Eugene  was  over,  for  he  said  nothing  much  of  seeing  her  again, 
or  had  not  so  far.  She  was  wishing  she  might  see  more  of  this 
world  he  painted  in  such  glowing  colors,  wrhen  he  said : 

"Mr.  Bangs  said  that  you  come  down  to  Chicago  every  now 
and  then?" 

"I  do,"  she  replied.  "I  sometimes  come  down  to  go  to  the 
theatres  and  shop."  She  did  not  say  that  there  was  an  element 
of  practical  household  commercialism  in  it,  for  she  was  con- 
sidered one  of  the  best  buyers  in  the  family  and  that  she  was  sent 
to  buy  by  various  members  of  the  family  in  quantities.  From  a 
practical  household  point  of  view  she  was  a  thoroughbred  and 
was  valued  by  her  sisters  and  friends  as  someone  who  loved  to  do 
things.  She  might  have  come  to  be  merely  a  family  pack  horse, 
solely  because  she  loved  to  work.  It  was  instinct  to  do  every- 
thing she  did  thoroughly,  but  she  worked  almost  exclusively  in 
minor  household  matters. 

"How  soon  do  you  expect  to  come  down  again?"  he  asked. 

"Oh,  I  can't  tell.  I  sometimes  come  down  when  Opera  is 
on  in  the  winter.  I  may  be  here  around  Thanksgiving." 

"Not  before  that?" 

"I  don't  think  so,"  she  replied  archly. 

"That's  too  bad.  I  thought  maybe  I'd  see  you  a  few  times 
this  fall.  When  you  do  come  I  wish  you  could  let  me  know. 
I'd  like  to  take  you  to  the  theatre." 

Eugene  spent  precious  little  money  on  any  entertainment,  but 
he  thought  he  could  venture  this.  She  would  not  be  down 
often.  Then,  too,  he  had  the  notion  that  he  might  get  a  rise 


THE; ''GENIUS'  67 

one  of  these  days — that  would  make  a  difference.  When  she 
came  again  he  would  be  in  art  school,  opening  up  another  field 
for  himself.  Life  looked  hopeful. 

"That's  so  nice  of  you,"  she  replied.  "And  when  I  come 
I'll  let  you  know.  I'm  just  a  country  girl,"  she  added,  with  a 
toss  of  her  head,  "and  I  don't  get  to  the  city  often." 

Eugene  liked  what  he  considered  the  guileless  naivete  of  her 
confessions — the  frankness  with  which  she  owned  up  to  sim- 
plicity and  poverty.  Most  girls  didn't.  She  almost  made  a 
virtue  out  of  these  things — at  least  they  were  charming  as  a 
confession  in  her. 

"I'll  hold  you  to  that/'  he  assured  her. 

"Oh,  you  needn't.     I'll  be  glad  to  let  you  know." 

They  were  nearing  the  station.  He  forgot,  for  the  moment 
that  she  was  not  as  remote  and  delicate  in  her  beauty  as  Stella, 
that  she  was  apparently  not  as  passionate  temperamentally  as 
Margaret.  He  saw  her  wonderfully  dull  hair  and  her  thin  lips 
and  peculiar  blue  eyes,  and  admired  her  honesty  and  simplicity. 
He  picked  up  her  grip  and  helped  her  to  find  her  train.  When 
they  came  to  part  he  pressed  her  hand  warmly,  for  she  had  been 
very  nice  to  him,  so  attentive  and  sympathetic  and  interested. 

"Now  remember!"  he  said  gaily,  after  he  had  put  her  in  her 
seat  in  the  local. 

"I  won't  forget." 

"You  wouldn't  mind  if  I  wrote  you  now  and  then?" 

"Not  at  all.     I'd  like  it." 

"Then  I  will,"  he  said,  and  went  out. 

He  stood  outside  and  looked  at  her  through  the  train  window 
as  it  pulled  out.  He  was  glad  to  have  met  her.  This  was 
the  right  sort  of  girl,  clean,  honest,  simple,  attractive.  That 
was  the  way  the  best  women  were — good  and  pure — not  wild 
pieces  of  fire  like  Margaret ;  nor  unconscious,  indifferent  beauties 
like  Stella,  he  was  going  to  add,  but  couldn't.  There  was  a 
voice  within  him  that  said  that  artistically  Stella  was  perfect 
and  even  now  it  hurt  him  a  little  to  remember.  But  Stella 
was  gone  forever,  there  was  no  doubt  about  that. 

During  the  days  that  followed  he  thought  of  the  girl  often. 
He  wondered  what  sort  of  a  town  Blackwood  was;  what  sort 
of  people  she  moved  with,  what  sort  of  a  house  she  lived  in. 
They  must  be  nice,  simple  people  like  his  own  in  Alexandria. 
These  types  of  city  bred  people  whom  he  saw — girls  particularly 
— and  those  born  to  wealth,  had  no  appeal  for  him  as  yet.  They 
were  too  distant,  too  far  removed  from  anything  he  could 
aspire  to.  A  good  woman  such  as  Miss  Blue  obviously  was, 


68  THE    "GENIUS" 

must  be  a  treasure  anywhere  in  the  world.  He  kept  thinking 
he  would  write  to  her — he  had  no  other  girl  acquaintance  now; 
and  just  before  he  entered  art  school  he  did  this,  penning  a  little 
note  saying  that  he  remembered  so  pleasantly  their  ride;  and 
when  was  she  coming?  Her  answer,  after  a  week,  was  that 
she  expected  to  be  in  the  city  about  the  middle  or  the  end  of 
October  and  that  she  would  be  glad  to  have  him  call.  She 
gave  him  the  number  of  an  aunt  who  lived  out  on  the  North 
Side  in  Ohio  Street,  and  said  she  would  notify  him  further.  She 
was  hard  at  work  teaching  school  now,  and  didn't  even  have 
time  to  think  of  the  lovely  summer  she  had  had. 

"Poor  little  girl,"  he  thought.  She  deserved  a  better  fate. 
"When  she  comes  I'll  surely  look  her  up,"  he  thought,  and  there 
was  a  lot  that  went  with  the  idea.  Such  wonderful  hair! 


CHAPTER  IX 

THE  succeeding  days  in  the  art  school  after  his  first  admission 
revealed  many  new  things  to  Eugene.  He  understood  now, 
or  thought  he  did,  why  artists  were  different  from  the  rank  and 
file  of  mankind.  This  Art  Institute  atmosphere  was  something 
so  refreshing  after  his  days  rambling  among  poor  neighbor- 
hoods collecting,  that  he  could  hardly  believe  that  he,  Eugene 
Witla,  belonged  there.  These  were  exceptional  young  people; 
some  of  them,  anyhow.  If  they  weren't  cut  out  to  be  good 
artists  they  still  had  imagination — the  dream  of  the  artist.  They 
came,  as  Eugene  gradually  learned,  from  all  parts  of  the  West 
and  South,  from  Chicago  and  St.  Louis — from  Kansas,  Nebraska 
and  Iowa — from  Texas  and  California  and  Minnesota.  One  boy 
was  in  from  Saskatchewan  of  the  Canadian  north  west,  an- 
other from  the  then  territory  of  New  Mexico.  Because  his 
name  was  Gill  they  called  him  the  Gila  monster — the  differ- 
ence in  the  pronunciation  of  the  "G's"  not  troubling  them  at  all. 
A  boy  who  came  down  from  Minnesota  was  a  farmer 's  son, 
and  talked  about  going  back  to  plow  and  sow  and  reap  during 
the  next  spring  and  summer.  Another  boy  was  the  son  of  a 
Kansas  City  millionaire. 

The  mechanics  of  drawing  interested  Eugene  from  the  first. 
He  learned  the  first  night  that  there  was  some  defect  in  his 
understanding  of  light  and  shade  as  it  related  to  the  human 
form.  He  could  not  get  any  roundness  or  texture  in  his  draw- 
ings. 

"The  darkest  shadow  is  always  closest  to  the  high  light,"  ob- 
served his  instructor  laconically  on  Wednesday  evening,  looking 
over  his  shoulder.  "You're  making  everything  a  dull,  even 
tone."  So  that  was  it. 

"You're  drawing  this  figure  as  a  bricklayer  who  isn't  an 
architect  might  start  to  build  a  house.  You're  laying  bricks 
without  having  a  plan.  Where's  your  plan?"  The  voice  was 
that  of  Mr.  Boyle  looking  over  his  shoulder. 

Eugene  looked  up.     He  had  begun  to  draw  the  head  only. 
"A  plan!     A  plan!"  said  his  instructor,  making  a  peculiar 
motion  with  his  hands  which  described  the  outline  of  the  pose 
in  a  single  motion.     "Get  your  general  lines  first.     Then  you 
can  put  in  the  details  afterward." 
Eugene  saw  at  once. 

69 


70  THE    "GENIUS" 

Another  time  his  instructor  was  watching  him  draw  the 
female  breast.  He  was  doing  it  woodenly — without  much 
beauty  of  contour. 

"They're  round!  They're  round!  I  tell  you!"  exclaimed 
Boyle.  "If  you  ever  see  any  square  ones  let  me  know." 

This  caught  Eugene's  sense  of  humor.  It  made  him  laugh, 
even  though  he  flushed  painfully,  for  he  knew  he  had  a  lot  to 
Jearn. 

The  crudest  thing  he  heard  this  man  say  was  to  a  boy  who 
was  rather  thick  and  fat  but  conscientious.  "You  can't  draw," 
he  said  roughly.  "Take  my  advice  and  go  home.  You'll  make 
more  money  driving  a  wagon." 

The  class  winced,  but  this  man  was  ugly  in  his  intolerance  of 
futility.  The  idea  of  anybody  wasting  his  time  was  obnoxious 
to  him.  He  took  art  as  a  business  man  takes  business,  and  he 
had  no  time  for  the  misfit,  the  fool,  or  the  failure.  He  wanted 
his  class  to  know  that  art  meant  effort. 

Aside  from  this  brutal  insistence  on  the  significance  of  art, 
there  was  another  side  to  the  life  which  was  not  so  hard  and 
in  a  way  more  alluring.  Between  the  twenty-five  minute  poses 
which  the  model  took,  there  were  some  four  or  five  min- 
ute rests  during  the  course  of  the  evening  in  which  the  students 
talked,  relighted  their  pipes  and  did  much  as  they  pleased. 
Sometimes  students  from  other  classes  came  in  for  a  few  mo- 
ments. 

The  thing  that  astonished  Eugene  though,  was  the  freedom 
of  the  model  with  the  students  and  the  freedom  of  the  students 
with  her.  After  the  first  few  weeks  he  observed  some  of  those 
who  had  been  there  the  year  before  going  up  to  the  platform 
where  the  girl  sat,  and  talking  with  her.  She  had  a  little  pink 
gauze  veil  which  she  drew  around  her  shoulders  or  waist  that 
instead  of  reducing  the  suggestiveness  of  her  attitudes  heightened 
them. 

"Say,  ain't  that  enough  to  make  everything  go  black  in  front 
of  your  eyes,"  said  one  boy  sitting  next  to  Eugene. 

"Well,  I  guess,"  he  laughed.     "There's  some  edge  to  that." 

The  boys  would  sit  and  laugh  and  jest  with  this  girl,  and 
she  would  laugh  and  coquette  in  return.  He  saw  her  strolling 
#bout  looking  at  some  of  the  students'  drawings  of  her  over 
their  shoulders,  standing  face  to  face  with  others — and  so 
calmly.  The  strong  desire  which  it  invariably  aroused  in  Eugene 
he  quelled  and  concealed,  for  these  things  were  not  to  be  shown 
on  the  surface.  Once,  while  he  was  looking  at  some  photographs 
that  a  student  had  brought,  she  came  and  looked  over  his  shoulder, 


THE    "GENIUS"  71 

this  little  flower  of  the  streets,  her  body  graced  by  the  thin 
scarf,  her  lips  and  cheeks  red  with  color.  She  came  so  close 
that  she  leaned  against  his  shoulder  and  arm  with  her  soft 
flesh.  It  pulled  him  tense,  like  a  great  current;  but  he  made 
no  sign,  pretending  that  it  was  the  veriest  commonplace.  Several 
times,  because  the  piano  was  there,  and  because  students  would 
sing  and  play  in  the  interludes,  she  came  and  sat  on  the  piano 
stool  herself,  strumming  out  an  accompaniment  to  which  some 
one  or  three  or  four  would  sing.  Somehow  this,  of  all  things, 
seemed  most  sensuous  to  him — most  oriental.  It  set  him  wild. 
He  felt  his  teeth  click  without  volition  on  his  part.  When 
she  resumed  her  pose,  his  passion  subsided,  for  then  the  cold, 
aesthetic  value  of  her  beauty  became  uppermost.  It  was  only  the 
incidental  things  that  upset  him. 

In  spite  of  these  disturbances,  Eugene  was  gradually  showing 
improvement  as  a  draughtsman  and  an  artist.  He  liked  to 
draw  the  figure.  He  was  not  as  quick  at  that  as  he  was  at  the 
more  varied  outlines  of  landscapes  and  buildings,  but  he  could 
give  lovely  sensuous  touches  to  the  human  form — particularly 
to  the  female  form — which  were  beginning  to  be  impressive. 
He'd  got  past  the  place  where  Boyle  had  ever  to  say  "They're 
round."  He  gave  a  sweep  to  his  lines  that  attracted  the  instruc- 
tor's attention. 

"You're  getting  the  thing  as  a  whole,  I  see,"  he  said  quietly, 
one  day.  Eugene  thrilled  with  satisfaction.  Another  Wednes- 
day he  said: — "A  little  colder,  my  boy,  a  little  colder.  There's 
sex  in  that.  It  isn't  in  the  figure.  You  ought  to  make  a  good 
mural  decorator  some  day,  if  you  have  the  inclination,"  Boyle 
went  on;  "you've  got  the  sense  of  beauty."  The  roots  of 
Eugene's  hair  tingled.  So  art  was  coming  to  him.  This  man 
saw  his  capacity.  He  really  had  art  in  him. 

One  evening  a  paper  sign  pasted  up  on  the  bulletin  board  bore 
the  significant  legend:  "Artists!  Attention!  We  eat!  We  eat! 
Nov.  1 6th.  at  Sofroni's.  All  those  who  want  to  get  in  give 
their  names  to  the  monitor." 

Eugene  had  heard  nothing  of  this,  but  he  judged  that  it 
originated  in  one  of  the  other  classes.  He  spoke  to  the  monitor 
and  learned  that  only  seventy-five  cents  was  required  of  him. 
Students  could  bring  girls  if  they  wished.  Most  of  them  would. 
He  decided  that  he  would  go.  But  where  to  get  a  girl? 
Sofroni's  was  an  Italian  restaurant  in  lower  Clark  Street,  which 
had  originally  started  out  as  an  eating  place  for  Italian  laborersr 
because  it  was  near  an  Italian  boarding  house  section.  It  was 
located  in  an  old  house  that  was  not  exactly  homely.  A  yard 


72  THE    "GENIUS" 

in  the  back  had  been  set  with  plain  wooden  tables,  and  benches 
had  been  placed  for  use  in  the  summer  time  and,  later,  this  had 
been  covered  with  a  mouldy  tent-cloth  to  protect  the  diners 
from  rain.  Still  later  this  became  glass  and  was  used  in  winter. 
The  place  was  clean  and  the  food  good.  Some  struggling  crafts- 
man in  journalism  and  art  had  found  it  and  by  degrees  Signer 
Sofroni  had  come  to  realize  that  he  was  dealing  with  a  better 
element.  He  began  to  exchange  greetings  with  these  people — 
to  set  aside  a  little  corner  for  them.  Finally  he  entertained  a 
small  group  of  them  at  dinner — charging  them  hardly  more  than 
cost  price — and  so  he  was  launched.  One  student  told  another. 
Sofroni  now  had  his  yard  covered  in  so  that  he  could  entertain  a 
hundred  at  dinner,  even  in  winter.  He  could  serve  several  kinds 
of  wines  and  liquors  with  a  dinner  for  seventy-five  cents  a  piece. 
So  he  was  popular. 

The  dinner  was  the  culmination  of  several  other  class  treats. 
It  was  the  custom  of  a  class,  whenever  a  stranger,  or  even  a 
new  member  appeared,  to  yell  "Treat!  Treat!"  at  which  the 
victim  or  new  member  was  supposed  to  produce  two  dollars 
as  a  contribution  to  a  beer  fund.  If  the  money  was  not  pro- 
duced— the  stranger  was  apt  to  be  thrown  out  or  some  ridiculous 
trick  played  upon  him — if  it  was  forthcoming,  work  for  the 
evening  ceased.  A  collection  was  immediately  taken  up.  Kegs 
of  beer  were  sent  for,  with  sandwiches  and  cheese.  Drinking, 
singing,  piano  playing,  jesting  followed.  Once,  to  Eugene's 
utter  astonishment,  one  of  the  students — a  big,  good  natured, 
carousing  boy  from  Omaha — lifted  the  nude  model  to  his  shoul- 
ders, set  her  astride  his  neck  and  proceeded  around  the  room, 
jigging  as  he  went — the  girl  meantime  pulling  his  black  hair, 
the  other  students  following  and  shouting  uproariously.  Some 
of  the  girls  in  an  adjoining  room,  studying  in  an  evening  life 
class,  stopped  their  work  to  peep  through  a  half  dozen  small  holes 
which  had  been  punched  in  the  intervening  partition.  The  sight 
of  Showalter  carrying  the  girl  so  astonished  the  eavesdroppers 
that  the  news  of  it  was  soon  all  over  the  building.  Knowledge 
of  the  escapade  reached  the  Secretary  and  the  next  day  the 
student  was  dropped.  But  the  Bacchic  dance  had  been  enacted 
— its  impression  was  left. 

There  were  other  treats  like  this  in  which  Eugene  was  urged 
to  drink,  and  he  did — a  very  little.  He  had  no  taste  for  beer. 
He  also  tried  to  smoke,  but  he  did  not  care  for  it.  He  could  be- 
come nervously  intoxicated  at  times,  by  the  mere  sight  of  such 
revelry,  and  then  he  grew  witty,  easy  in  his  motions,  quick  to 
say  bright  things.  On  one  of  these  occasions  one  of  the  models 


THE   "GENIUS"  73 

said  to  him:  "Why,  you're  nicer  than  I  thought.  I  imagined 
you  were  very  solemn." 

"Oh,  no,"  he  said,  "only  at  times.    You  don't  know  me." 

He  seized  her  about  the  waist,  but  she  pushed  him  away.  He 
wished  now  that  he  danced,  for  he  saw  that  he  might  have 
whirled  her  about  the  room  then  and  there.  He  decided  to  learn 
at  once. 

The  question  of  a  girl  for  the  dinner,  troubled  him.  He  knew 
of  no  one  except  Margaret,  and  he  did  not  know  that  she  danced. 
There  was  Miss  Blue,  of  Blackwood — whom  he  had  seen  when 
she  made  her  promised  visit  to  the  city — but  the  thought  of  her  in 
connection  with  anything  like  this  was  to  him  incongruous.  He 
wondered  what  she  would  think  if  she  saw  such  scenes  as  he 
had  witnessed. 

It  chanced  that  one  day  when  he  was  in  the  members'  room, 
he  met  Miss  Kenny,  the  girl  whom  he  had  seen  posing  the 
night  he  had  entered  the  school.  Eugene  remembered  her 
fascination,  for  she  was  the  first  nude  model  he  had  ever  seen 
and  she  was  pretty.  She  was  also  the  one  who  had  come  and 
stood  by  him  when  she  was  posing.  He  had  not  seen  her 
since  then.  She  had  liked  Eugene,  but  he  had  seemed  a  little 
distant  and,  at  first,  a  little  commonplace.  Lately  he  had 
taken  to  a  loose,  flowing  tie  and  a  soft  round  hat  which  be- 
came him.  He  turned  his  hair  back  loosely  and  emulated  the 
independent  swing  of  Mr.  Temple  Boyle.  That  man  was  a  sort 
of  god  to  him — strong  and  successful.  To  be  like  that! 

The  girl  noted  a  change  for  what  she  deemed  the  better.  He 
was  so  nice  now,  she  thought,  so  white-skinned  and  clear-eyed 
and  keen. 

She  pretended  to  be  looking  at  the  drawing  of  a  nude  when 
she  saw  him. 

"How  are  you?"  he  asked,  smiling,  venturing  to  speak  to  her 
because  he  was  lonely  and  because  he  knew  no  other  girl. 

She  turned  gaily,  and  returned  the  question,  facing  him  with 
smiling  lips  and  genial  eyes. 

"I  haven't  seen  you  for  some  time,"  he  said.  "Are  you  back 
here  now?" 

"For  this  week,"  she  said.  "I'm  doing  studio  work.  I  don't 
care  for  classes  when  I  can  get  the  other." 

"I  thought  you  liked  them!"  he  replied,  recalling  her  gaiety 
of  mood. 

"Oh,  I  don't  dislike  it.     Only,  studio  work  is  better." 

"We've  missed  you,"  he  said.  "The  others  haven't  been 
nearly  as  nice." 


74  THE    "GENIUS' 

"Aren't  you  complimentary,"  she  laughed,  her  black  eyes 
looking  into  his  with  a  twinkle. 

"No,  it's  so,"  he  returned,  and  then  asked  hopefully,  "Are 
you  going  to  the  dinner  on  the  i6th?" 

"Maybe,"  she  said.  "I  haven't  made  up  my  mind.  It  all 
depends." 

"On  what?" 

"On  how  I  feel  and  who  asks  me." 

"I  shouldn't  think  there'd  be  any  trouble  about  that,"  he 
observed.  "If  I  had  a  girl  I'd  go,"  he  went  on,  making  a  terrific 
effort  to  reach  the  point  where  he  could  ask  her.  She  saw  his 
intention. 

"Well?"   she  laughed. 

"Would  you  go  with  me?"  he  ventured,  thus  so  shamelessly 
assisted. 

"Sure!"  she  said,  for  she  liked  him. 

"That's  fine!"  he  exclaimed.  "Where  do  you  live?  I'll  want 
to  know  that."  He  searched  for  a  pencil. 

She  gave  him  her  number  on  West  Fifty-seventh  Street. 

Because  of  his  collecting  he  knew  the  neighborhood.  It  was 
a  street  of  shabby  frame  houses  far  out  on  the  South  Side.  He 
remembered  great  mazes  of  trade  near  it,  and  unpaved  streets 
and  open  stretches  of  wet  prairie  land.  Somehow  it  seemed 
fitting  to  him  that  this  little  flower  of  the  muck  and  coal  yard 
area  should  be  a  model. 

"I'll  be  sure  and  get  you,"  he  laughed.  "You  won't  forget, 
will  you,  Miss — " 

"Just  Ruby,"  she  interrupted.     "Ruby  Kenny." 

"It's  a  pretty  name,  isn't  it?"  he  said.  "It's  euphonious.  You 
wouldn't  let  me  come  out  some  Sunday  and  see  just  where  it  is?" 

"Yes,  you  may,"  she  replied,  pleased  by  his  comment  on  her 
name.  "I'm  home  most  every  Sunday.  Come  out  next  Sun- 
day afternoon,  if  you  want  to." 

"I  will,"  said  Eugene. 

He  walked  out  to  the  street  with  her  in  a  very  buoyant  ipood. 


CHAPTER  X 

RUBY  KENNY  was  the  adopted  child  of  an  old  Irish 
laborer  and  his  wife  who  had  taken  her  from  a  quarrelling 
couple  when  they  had  practically  deserted  her  at  the  age  of 
four  years.  She  was  bright,  good  natured,  not  at  all  informed  as 
to  the  social  organization  of  the  world,  just  a  simple  little  girl 
with  a  passion  for  adventure  and  no  saving  insight  which  would 
indicate  beforehand  whither  adventure  might  lead.  She  began 
life  as  a  cash  girl  in  a  department  store  and  was  spoiled  of  her 
virtue  at  fifteen.  She  was  rather  fortunate  in  that  her  smartness 
attracted  the  rather  superior,  capable,  self-protecting  type  of 
man;  and  these  were  fortunate  too,  in  that  she  was  not  utterly 
promiscuous,  appetite  with  her  waiting  on  strong  liking,  and 
in  one  or  two  cases  real  affection,  and  culminating  only  after 
a  period  of  dalliance  which  made  her  as  much  a  victim  of  her 
moods  as  were  her  lovers.  Her  foster  parents  provided  no  guid- 
ance of  any  intelligent  character.  They  liked  her,  and  since 
she  was  brighter  than  they  were,  submitted  to  her  rule,  her 
explanations  of  conduct,  her  taste.  She  waved  aside  with  a 
laughing  rejoinder  any  slight  objections  they  might  make,  and 
always  protested  that  she  did  not  care  what  the  neighbors  thought. 

The  visits  which  Eugene  paid,  and  the  companionship  which 
ensued,  were  of  a  piece  with  every  other  relationship  of  this 
character  which  he  ever  entered  into.  He  worshiped  beauty 
as  beauty,  and  he  never  wholly  missed  finding  a  certain  quality 
of  mind  and  heart  for  which  he  longed.  He  sought  in  women, 
besides  beauty,  good  nature  and  sympathy;  he  shunned  criticism 
and  coldness,  and  was  never  apt  to  select  for  a  sweetheart  anyone 
who  could  outshine  him  either  in  emotion  or  rapidity  or  distinc- 
tion of  ideas. 

He  liked,  at  this  time,  simple  things,  simple  homes,  simple 
surroundings,  the  commonplace  atmosphere  of  simple  life,  for 
the  more  elegant  and  imposing  overawed  him.  The  great  man- 
sions which  he  saw,  the  great  trade  structures,  the  great,  signifi- 
cant personalities,  seemed  artificial  and  cold.  He  liked  little 
people — people  who  were  not  known,  but  who  were  sweet  and 
kindly  in  their  moods.  If  he  could  find  female  beauty  with  any- 
thing like  that  as  a  background  he  was  happy  and  settled  down 
near  it,  if  he  could,  in  comfort.  His  drawing  near  to  Ruby  was 
governed  by  this  mood. 

75 


76  THE    "GENIUS' 

The  Sunday  Eugene  called,  it  rained  and  the  neighborhood 
in  which  she  lived  was  exceedingly  dreary.  Looking  around 
here  and  there  one  could  see  in  the  open  spaces  between  the 
houses  pools  of  water  standing  in  the  brown,  dead  grass.  He 
had  crossed  a  great  maze  of  black  cindered  car  tracks,  where 
engines  and  cars  wrere  in  great  masses,  and  speculated  on  the 
drawings  such  scenes  would  make — big  black  engines  throwing 
up  clouds  of  smoke  and  steam  in  a  grey,  wet  air ;  great  mazes  of 
parti-colored  cars  dank  in  the  rain  but  lovely.  At  night  the 
switch  lights  in  these  great  masses  of  yards  bloomed  like  flowers. 
He  loved  the  sheer  yellows,  reds,  greens,  blues,  that  burned 
like  eyes.  Here  was  the  stuff  that  touched  him  magnificently, 
and  somehow  he  was  glad  that  this  raw  flowering  girl  lived 
near  something  like  this. 

When  he  reached  the  door  and  rang  the  bell  he  was  greeted 
by  an  old  shaky  Irish- American  who  seemed  to  him  rather  low 
in  the  scale  of  intelligence — the  kind  of  a  man  who  would 
make  a  good  crossing  guard,  perhaps.  He  had  on  common, 
characterful  clothes,  the  kind  that  from  long  wear  have  taken 
the  natural  outlines  of  the  body.  In  his  fingers  was  a  short  pipe 
which  he  had  been  smoking. 

"Is  Miss  Kenny  in?"  Eugene  inquired. 

"Yus,"  said  the  man.  "Come  in.  I'll  git  her."  He  poked 
back  through  a  typical  workingman's  parlor  to  a  rear  room. 
Someone  had  seen  to  it  that  almost  everything  in  the  room  was 
red — the  big  silk-shaded  lamp,  the  family  album,  the  carpet 
and  the  red  flowered  wall  paper. 

While  he  was  waiting  he  opened  the  album  and  looked  at 
what  he  supposed  were  her  relatives — commonplace  people,  all 
— clerks,  salesmen,  store-keepers.  Presently  Ruby  came,  and 
then  his  eye  lighted,  for  there  was  about  her  a  smartness  of  youth 
— she  was  not  more  than  nineteen — which  captivated  his  fancy. 
She  had  on  a  black  cashmere  dress  with  touches  of  red  velvet 
at  the  neck  and  elsewhere,  and  she  wore  a  loose  red  tie,  much 
as  a  boy  might.  She  looked  gay  and  cheerful  and  held  out  her 
hand. 

"Did  you  have  much  trouble  in  getting  here?"  she  asked. 

He  shook  his  head.  "I  know  this  country  pretty  well.  I 
collect  all  through  here  week  days.  I  work  for  the  Peoples' 
Furniture  Company,  you  know." 

"Oh,  then  it's  all  right,"  she  said,  enjoying  his  frankness. 
"I  thought  you'd  have  a  hard  time  finding  it.  It's  a  pretty  bad 
day,  isn't  it?" 

Eugene  admitted  that  it  was,  but  commented  on  the  car  tracks 


THE  "GENIUS"  77 

he  had  seen.  "If  I  could  paint  at  all  I'd  like  to  paint  those 
things.  They're  so  big  and  wonderful." 

He  went  to  the  window  and  gazed  out  at  the  neighborhood. 

Ruby  watched  him  with  interest.  His  movements  were  pleas- 
ing to  her.  She  felt  at  home  in  his  company — as  though  she  were 
going  to  like  him  very  much.  It  was  so  easy  to  talk  to  him. 
There  were  the  classes,  her  studio  work,  his  own  career,  this 
neighborhood,  to  give  her  a  feeling  of  congeniality  with  him. 

"Are  there  many  big  studios  in  Chicago?"  he  asked  when 
they  finally  got  around  to  that  phase  of  her  work.  He  was  curi- 
ous to  know  what  the  art  life  of  the  city  was. 

"No,  not  so  very  many — not,  at  least,  of  the  good  ones. 
There  are  a  lot  of  fellows  who  think  they  can  paint." 

"Who  are  the  big  ones?"  he  asked. 

"Well,  I  only  know  by  what  I  hear  artists  say.  Mr.  Rose 
is  pretty  good.  By  am  Jones  is  pretty  fine  on  genre  subjects,  so 
they  say.  Walter  Low  is  a  good  portrait  painter,  and  so  is 
Manson  Steele.  And  let's  see — there's  Arthur  Biggs — he  does 
landscapes  only;  I've  never  been  in  his  studio;  and  Finley  Wood, 
he's  another  portrait  man;  and  Wilson  Brooks,  he  does  figures 
— Oh !  I  don't  know,  there  are  quite  a  number." 

Eugene  listened  entranced.  This  patter  of  art  matters  was 
more  in  the  way  of  definite  information  about  personalities 
than  he  had  heard  during  all  the  time  he  had  been  in  the  city. 
The  girl  knew  these  things.  She  was  in  the  movement.  He 
wondered  what  her  relationship  to  these  various  people  was? 

He  got  up  after  a  time  and  looked  out  of  the  window  again. 
She  came  also.  "It's  not  very  nice  around  here,"  she  explained, 
"but  papa  and  mamma  like  to  live  here.  It's  near  papa's  work." 

"Was  that  your  father  I  met  at  the  door?" 

"They're  not  my  real  parents,"  she  explained.  "I'm  an 
adopted  child.  They're  just  like  real  parents  to  me,  though, 
I  certainly  owe  them  a  lot." 

"You  can't  have  been  posing  in  art  very  long,"  said  Eugene 
thoughtfully,  thinking  of  her  age. 

"No ;  I  only  began  about  a  year  ago." 

She  told  how  she  had  been  a  clerk  in  The  Fair  and  how  she  and 
another  girl  had  got  the  idea  from  seeing  articles  in  the  Sunday 
papers.  There  was  once  a  picture  in  the  Tribune  of  a  model 
posing  in  the  nude  before  the  local  life  class.  This  had  taken 
her  eye  and  she  had  consulted  with  the  other  girl  as  to  whether 
they  had  not  better  try  posing,  too.  Her  friend,  like  herself, 
was  still  posing.  She  was  coming  to  the  dinner. 

Eugene  listened  entranced.     It  reminded  him  of  how  he  was 


78  THE    "GENIUS" 

caught  by  the  picture  of  Goose  Island  in  the  Chicago  River, 
of  the  little  tumble-down  huts  and  upturned  hulls  of  boats 
used  for  homes.  He  told  her  of  that  and  of  how  he  came,  and  it 
touched  her  fancy.  She  thought  he  was  sentimental  but  nice — 
and  then  he  was  big,  too,  and  she  was  so  much  smaller. 

"You  play?"  he  asked,  "don't  you?" 

"Oh,  just  a  little.  But  we  haven't  got  a  piano.  I  learned 
what  I  know  by  practising  at  the  different  studios." 

"Do  you  dance?"  asked  Eugene. 

"Yes,  indeed,"  she  replied. 

"I  wish  I  did,"  he  commented  ruefully. 

"Why  don't  you?  It's  easy.  You  could  learn  in  no  time. 
I  could  teach  you  in  a  lesson." 

"I  wish  you  would,"  he  said  persuasively. 

"It  isn't  hard,"  she  went  on,  moving  away  from  him.  "I 
can  show  you  the  steps.  They  always  begin  with  the  waltz." 

She  lifted  her  skirts  and  exposed  her  little  feet.  She  ex- 
plained what  to  do  and  how  to  do  it.  He  tried  it  alone,  but 
failed;  so  she  got  him  to  put  his  arm  around  her  and  placed 
her  hand  in  his.  "Now,  follow  me,"  she  said. 

It  was  so  delightful  to  find  her  in  his  arms!  And  she  was 
apparently  in  no  hurry  to  conclude  the  lesson,  for  she  worked 
with  him  quite  patiently,  explaining  the  steps,  stopping  and 
correcting  him,  laughing  at  her  mistakes  and  his.  "You're 
getting  it,  though,"  she  said,  after  they  had  turned  around  a  few 
times. 

They  had  looked  into  each  other's  eyes  a  number  of  times 
and  she  gave  him  frank  smiles  in  return  for  his.  He  thought 
of  the  time  when  she  stood  by  him  in  the  studio,  looking  over 
his  shoulder.  Surely,  surely  this  gap  of  formalities  might  be 
bridged  over  at  once  if  he  tried — if  he  had  the  courage.  He 
pulled  her  a  little  closer  and  when  they  stopped  he  did  not 
let  go. 

"You're  mighty  sweet  to  me,"  he  said  with  an  effort. 

"No,  I'm  just  good  natured,"  she  laughed,  not  endeavoring  to 
break  away. 

He  became  emotionally  tense,  as  always. 

She  rather  liked  what  seemed  the  superiority  of  his  mood.  It 
was  different,  stronger  than  was  customary  in  the  men  she 
knew. 

"Do  you  like  me?"  he  asked,  looking  at  her. 

She  studied  his  face  and  hair  and  eyes. 

"I  don't  know,"  she  returned  calmly. 

"Are  you  sure  you  don't?" 


THE    "GENIUS"  79 

There  was  another  pause  in  which  she  looked  almost  mockingly 
at  him  and  then,  sobering,  away  at  the  hall  door. 

"Yes,  I  think  I  do/'  she  said. 

He  picked  her  up  in  his  arms.  "You're  as  cute  as  a  doll,"  he 
said  and  carried  her  to  the  red  settee.  She  spent  the  rest  of  the 
rainy  afternoon  resting  in  his  arms  and  enjoying  his  kisses.  He 
was  a  new  and  peculiar  kind  of  boy. 


CHAPTER  XI 

A  LITTLE  while  before,  Angela  Blue  at  Eugene's  earnest 
solicitation  had  paid  her  first  Fall  visit  to  Chicago.  She 
had  made  a  special  effort  to  come,  lured  by  a  certain  poignancy 
of  expression  which  he  could  give  to  any  thought,  particularly 
when  it  concerned  his  desires.  In  addition  to  the  art  of  drawing 
he  had  the  gift  of  writing — very  slow  in  its  development  from 
a  structural  and  interpretative  point  of  view,  but  powerful  al- 
ready on  its  descriptive  side.  He  could  describe  anything,  people, 
houses,  horses,  dogs,  landscapes,  much  as  he  could  draw  them 
and  give  a  sense  of  tenderness  and  pathos  in  the  bargain  which 
was  moving.  He  could  describe  city  scenes  and  the  personal 
atmosphere  which  surrounded  him  in  the  most  alluring  fashion. 
He  had  little  time  to  write,  but  he  took  it  in  this  instance  to 
tell  this  girl  what  he  was  doing  and  how  he  was  doing  it.  She 
was  captivated  by  the  quality  of  the  world  in  which  he  was 
moving,  and  the  distinction  of  his  own  personality,  which  he 
indicated  rather  indirectly  than  otherwise.  By  contrast  her 
own  little  world  began  to  look  very  shabby  indeed. 

She  came  shortly  after  his  art  school  opened,  and  at  her 
invitation  he  went  out  to  the  residence  of  her  aunt  on  the  North 
Side,  a  nice,  pleasant  brick  house  in  a  quiet  side  street,  which 
had  all  the  airs  of  middle  class  peace  and  comfort.  He  was 
impressed  with  what  seemed  to  him  a  sweet,  conservative  at- 
mosphere— a  fitting  domicile  for  a  girl  so  dainty  and  refined  as 
Angela.  He  paid  his  respects  early  Saturday  morning  because 
her  neighborhood  happened  to  be  in  the  direction  of  his  work. 

She  played  for  him — better  than  anyone  he  had  ever  known. 
It  seemed  to  him  a  great  accomplishment.  Her  temperament 
attracted  her  to  music  of  a  high  emotional  order  and  to  songs 
and  instrumental  compositions  of  indefinable  sweetness.  In  the 
half  hour  he  stayed  she  played  several  things,  and  he  noted  with 
a  new  pleasure  her  small  shapely  body  in  a  dress  of  a  very 
simple,  close  fitting  design ;  her  hair  hung  in  two  great  braids 
far  below  her  waist.  She  reminded  him  the  least  bit  of  Mar- 
guerite in  "Faust," 

He  went  again  in  the  evening,  shining  and  eager,  and  arrayed 
in  his  best.  He  was  full  of  the  sense  of  his  art  prospects,  and 
happy  to  see  her  again,  for  he  was  satisfied  that  he  was  going  to 
fall  in  love  with  her.  She  had  a  strong,  sympathetic  attitude 

80 


THE    "GENIUS'1  81 

which  allured  him.  She  wanted  to  be  nice  to  this  youth — wanted 
him  to  like  her — and  so  the  atmosphere  was  right. 

That  evening  he  took  her  to  the  Chicago  Opera  House, 
where  there  was  playing  an  extravaganza.  This  fantasy,  so 
beautiful  in  its  stage-craft,  so  gorgeous  in  its  show  of  costumes 
and  pretty  girls,  so  idle  in  its  humor  and  sweet  in  its  love 
songs,  captivated  both  Eugene  and  Angela.  Neither  had  been 
to  a  theatre  for  a  long  time;  both  were  en  rapport  with  some 
such  fantastic  interpretation  of  existence.  After  the  short  ac- 
quaintance at  Alexandria  it  was  a  nice  coming  together.  It 
gave  point  to  their  reunion. 

After  the  performance  he  guided  her  through  the  surging 
crowds  to  a  North  Division  Street  car — they  had  laid  cables 
since  his  arrival — and  together  they  went  over  the  beauties  and 
humor  of  the  thing  they  had  seen.  He  asked  permission  to  call 
again  next  day,  and  at  the  end  of  an  afternoon  in  her  company, 
proposed  that  they  go  to  hear  a  famous  preacher  who  was  speak- 
ing in  Central  Music  Hall  evenings. 

Angela  was  pleased  at  Eugene's  resourcefulness.  She  wanted 
to  be  with  him;  this  was  a  good  excuse.  They  went  early  and 
enjoyed  it.  Eugene  liked  the  sermon  as  an  expression  of  youth 
and  beauty  and  power  to  command.  He  would  have  liked  to  be 
an  orator  like  that,  and  he  told  Angela  so.  And  he  confided  more 
and  more  of  himself  to  her.  She  was  impressed  by  his  vivid  in- 
terest in  life,  his  selective  power,  and  felt  that  he  was  destined 
to  be  a  notable  personality. 

There  were  other  meetings.  She  came  again  in  early  Novem- 
ber and  before  Christmas  and  Eugene  was  fast  becoming  lost 
in  the  meshes  of  her  hair.  Although  he  met  Ruby  in  November 
and  took  up  a  tentative  relation  on  a  less  spiritual  basis — as  he 
would  have  said  at  the  time — he  nevertheless  held  this  ac- 
quaintanceship with  Angela  in  the  background  as  a  superior 
and  more  significant  thing.  She  was  purer  than  Ruby;  there  was 
in  her  certainly  a  deeper  vein  of  feeling,  as  expressed  in  her 
thoughts  and  music.  Moreover  she  represented  a  country  home, 
something  like  his  own,  a  nice  simple  country  town,  nice  people. 
Why  should  he  part  with  her,  or  ever  let  her  know  anything 
of  this  other  world  that  he  touched?  He  did  not  think  he  ought 
to.  He  was  afraid  that  he  would  lose  her,  and  he  knew  that 
she  would  make  any  man  an  ideal  wife.  She  came  again  in 
December  and  he  almost  proposed  to  her — he  must  not  be  free 
with  her  or  draw  too  near  too  rapidly.  She  made  him  feel  the 
sacredness  of  love  and  marriage.  And  he  did  propose  in  January. 

The  artist  is  a  blend  of  subtleties  in  emotion  which  can  not  be 


82  THE  "GENIUS11 

classified.  No  one  woman  could  have  satisfied  all  sides  of 
Eugene's  character  at  that  time.  Beauty  was  the  point  with  him. 
Any  girl  who  was  young,  emotional  or  sympathetic  to  the  right 
degree  and  beautiful  would  have  attracted  and  held  him  for  a 
while.  He  loved  beauty — not  a  plan  of  life.  He  was  in- 
terested in  an  artistic  career,  not  in  the  founding  of  a  family. 
Girlhood — the  beauty  of  youth — was  artistic,  hence  he  craved 
it. 

Angela's  mental  and  emotional  composition  was  stable.  She 
had  learned  to  believe  from  childhood  that  marriage  was  a 
fixed  thing.  She  believed  in  one  life  and  one  love.  When  you 
found  that,  every  other  relationship  which  did  not  minister 
to  it  was  ended.  If  children  came,  very  good;  if  not,  very  good; 
marriage  was  permanent  anyhow.  And  if  you  did  not  marry 
happily  it  was  nevertheless  your  duty  to  endure  and  suffer  for 
whatever  good  might  remain.  You  might  suffer  badly  in  such  a 
union,  but  it  was  dangerous  and  disgraceful  to  break  it.  If 
you  could  not  stand  it  any  more,  your  life  was  a  failure. 

Of  course,  Eugene  did  not  know  what  he  was  trifling  with. 
He  had  no  conception  of  the  nature  of  the  relationship  he  was 
building  up.  He  went  on  blindly  dreaming  of  this  girl  as 
an  ideal,  and  anticipating  eventual  marriage  with  her.  When 
that  would  be,  he  had  no  idea,  for  though  his  salary  had  been 
raised  at  Christmas  he  was  getting  only  eighteen  dollars  a 
week;  but  he  deemed  it  would  come  within  a  reasonable  time. 

Meanwhile,  his  visits  to  Ruby  had  brought  the  inevitable  re- 
sult. The  very  nature  of  the  situation  seemed  to  compel  it.  She 
was  young,  brimming  over  with  a  love  of  adventure,  admiring 
youth  and  strength  in  men.  Eugene,  with  his  pale  face,  which 
had  just  a  touch  of  melancholy  about  it,  his  sex  magnetism,  his 
love  of  beauty,  appealed  to  her.  Uncurbed  passion  was  perhaps 
uppermost  to  begin  with ;  very  shortly  it  was  confounded  with 
affection,  for  this  girl  could  love.  She  was  sweet,  good  natured, 
ignorant  of  life  from  many  points  of  view.  Eugene  represented 
the  most  dramatic  imagination  she  had  yet  seen.  She  described 
to  him  the  character  of  her  foster  parents,  told  how  simple  they 
were  and  how  she  could  do  about  as  she  pleased.  They  did  not 
know  that  she  posed  in  the  nude.  She  confided  to  him  her  par- 
ticular friendship  for  certain  artists,  denying  any  present  inti- 
macies. She  admitted  them  in  the  past,  but  asserted  that  they 
were  bygones.  Eugene  really  did  not  believe  this.  He  suspected 
her  of  meeting  other  approaches  in  the  spirit  in  which  she  had 
met  his  own.  It  aroused  his  jealousy,  and  he  wished  at  once  that 
she  were  not  a  model.  He  said  as  much  and  she  laughed.  She 


THE  "GENIUS'  83 

knew  he  would  act  like  that,  it  was  the  first  proof  of  real,  definite 
interest  in  her  on  his  part. 

From  that  time  on  there  were  lovely  days  and  evenings  spent 
in  her  company.  Before  the  dinner  she  invited  him  over  to 
breakfast  one  Sunday.  Her  foster  parents  were  to  be  away 
and  she  was  to  have  the  house  to  herself.  She  wanted  to  cook 
Eugene  a  breakfast — principally  to  show  him  she  could  cook — 
and  then  it  was  novel.  She  waited  till  he  arrived  at  nine  to 
begin  operations  and  then,  arrayed  in  a  neat  little  lavender, 
close  fitting  house  dress,  and  a  ruffled  white  apron,  went  about 
her  work,  setting  the  table,  making  biscuit,  preparing  a  kidney 
ragout  with  strong  wine,  and  making  coffee. 

Eugene  was  delighted.  He  followed  her  about,  delaying  her 
work  by  taking  her  in  his  arms  and  kissing  her.  She  got  flour 
on  her  nose  and  he  brushed  it  off  with  his  lips. 

It  was  on  this  occasion  that  she  showed  him  a  very  pleasing 
little  dance  she  could  do — a  clog  dance,  which  had  a  running, 
side-ways  motion,  with  frequent  and  rapid  clicking  of  the  heels. 
She  gathered  her  skirts  a  little  way  above  her  ankles  and  twinkled 
her  feet  through  a  maze  of  motions.  Eugene  was  beside  him- 
self with  admiration.  He  told  himself  he  had  never  met  such 
a  girl — to  be  so  clever  at  posing,  playing  and  dancing,  and  so 
young.  He  thought  she  would  make  a  delightful  creature  to 
live  with,  and  he  wished  now  he  had  money  enough  to  make  it 
possible.  At  this  high-flown  moment  and  at  some  others  he 
thought  he  might  almost  marry  her. 

On  the  night  of  the  dinner  he  took  her  to  Sofroni's,  and  was 
surprised  to  find  her  arrayed  in  a  red  dress  with  a  row  of  large 
black  leather  buttons  cutting  diagonally  across  the  front.  She 
had  on  red  stockings  and  shoes  and  wore  a  red  carnation  in  her 
hair.  The  bodice  was  cut  low  in  the  neck  and  the  sleeves  were 
short.  Eugene  thought  she  looked  stunning  and  told  her  so. 
She  laughed.  They  went  in  a  cab,  for  she  had  warned  him  be- 
forehand that  they  would  have  to.  It  cost  him  two  dollars  each 
way  but  he  excused  his  extravagance  on  the  ground  of  necessity. 
It  was  little  things  like  this  that  were  beginning  to  make  him 
think  strongly  of  the  problem  of  getting  on. 

The  students  who  had  got  up  this  dinner  were  from  all 
the  art  classes,  day  and  night.  There  were  over  two  hundred  of 
them,  all  of  them  young,  and  there  was  a  mixed  collection  of 
girl  art  students,  artist's  models  and  girl  friends  of  various  grades 
of  thought  and  condition,  who  were  brought  as  companions.  The 
big  dining-room  was  tempestuous  with  the  rattling  of  dishes, 
the  shouting  of  jests,  the  singing  of  songs  and  the  exchange  of 


84  THE    "GENIUS" 

greetings.  Eugene  knew  a  few  of  these  people  outside  his  own 
classes,  enough  to  give  him  the  chance  to  be  sociable  and  not 
appear  lonely  or  out  of  it. 

From  the  outset  it  was  apparent  that  she,  Ruby,  was  generally 
known  and  liked.  Her  costume — a  little  bold — made  her  con- 
spicuous. From  various  directions  there  were  cries  of  "Hey! 
Rube!"  which  was  a  familiar  interpretation  of  her  first  name, 
Ruby. 

Eugene  was  surprised  at  this — it  shocked  him  a  little.  All 
sorts  of  boys  he  did  not  know  came  and  talked  to  her,  exchang- 
ing familiar  gossip.  She  was  called  away  from  him  a  dozen  times 
in  as  many  minutes.  He  saw  her  laughing  and  chatting  at  the 
other  end  of  the  hall,  surrounded  by  half  a  dozen  students.  It 
made  him  jealous. 

As  the  evening  progressed  the  attitude  of  each  toward  the 
other  and  all  toward  anyone  became  more  and  more  familiar. 
When  the  courses  were  over,  a  space  was  cleared  at  one  end 
and  a  screen  of  green  cloth  rigged  up  in  one  corner  as  a  dress- 
ing room  for  stunts.  Eugene  saw  one  of  the  students  called 
with  much  applause  to  do  an  Irish  monologue,  wearing  green 
whiskers,  which  he  adjusted  in  the  presence  of  the  crowd.  There 
was  another  youth  who  pretended  to  have  with  him  an  immense 
roll  of  verse — an  epic,  no  less — wound  in  so  tight  a  manner 
that  it  looked  as  though  it  might  take  all  night  to  read  it.  The 
crowd  groaned.  With  amazing  savoir  faire  he  put  up  one  hand 
for  silence,  dropped  the  roll,  holding,  of  course,  to  the  outer 
end  and  began  reading.  It  was  not  bad  verse,  but  the  amusing 
pait  was  that  it  was  really  short,  not  more  than  twenty  lines. 
The  rest  of  the  paper  had  been  covered  with  scribbling  to  de- 
ceive the  crowd.  It  secured  a  round  of  applause.  There  was 
one  second-year  man  who  sang  a  song — "Down  in  the  Lehigh 
Valley" — and  another  who  gave  imitations  of  Temple  Boyle  and 
other  instructors  at  their  work  of  criticising  and  painting  for 
the  benefit  of  the  class.  These  were  greatly  enjoyed.  Finally 
one  of  the  models,  after  much  calling  by  the  crowd  of  "Des- 
mond! Desmond!" — her  last  name — went  behind  the  green 
cloth  screen  and  in  a  few  moments  reappeared  in  the  short  skirt 
of  a  Spanish  dancer,  with  black  and  silver  spangles,  and  castanets. 
Some  friendly  student  had  brought  a  mandolin  and  "La  Paloma" 
was  danced. 

Eugene  had  little  of  Ruby's  company  during  all  these  doings. 
She  was  too  much  sought  after.  As  the  other  girl  was  conclud- 
ing her  dance  he  heard  the  cry  of  "Hey,  Rube!  Why  don't  you 
do  your  turn?"  Someone  else,  eager  to  see  her  dance,  called 


THE  "GENIUS"  85 

"Come  on,  Ruby!"  The  rest  of  the  room,  almost  unthinkingly 
took  it  up.  Some  boys  surrounding  her  had  started  to  push 
her  toward  the  dancing  space.  Before  Eugene  knew  it  she  was  up 
in  someone's  arms  being  passed  from  group  to  group  for  a 
joke.  The  crowd  cheered.  Eugene,  however,  having  come  so 
close  to  her,  was  irritated  by  this  familiarity.  She  did  not 
appear  to  belong  to  him,  but  to  the  whole  art-student  body. 
And  she  was  laughing.  When  she  was  put  down  in  the  clear 
space  she  lifted  her  skirts  as  she  had  done  for  him  and  danced. 
A  crowd  of  students  got  very  close.  He  had  to  draw  near  to 
see  her  at  all.  And  there  she  was,  unconscious  of  him,  doing 
her  gay  clog  dance.  When  she  stopped,  three  or  four  of  the  more 
daring  youths  urged  her,  seizing  her  by  the  hands  and  arms, 
to  do  something  else.  Someone  cleared  a  table  and  someone 
else  picked  her  up  and  put  her  on  it.  She  did  still  other  dances. 
Someone  cried,  "Hey,  Kenny,  do  you  need  the  red  dress?" 
So  this  was  his  temporary  sweetheart. 

When  she  was  finally  ready  to  go  home  at  four  o'clock  in 
the  morning,  or  when  the  others  were  agreed  to  let  her  go,  she 
hardly  remembered  that  she  had  Eugene  with  her.  She  saw 
him  waiting  as  two  students  were  asking  for  the  privilege  of 
taking  her  home. 

"No,"  she  exclaimed,  seeing  him,  "I  have  my  escort.  I'm 
going  now.  Good-bye,"  and  came  toward  him.  He  felt  rather 
frozen  and  out  of  it. 

"Are  you  ready?"  she  asked. 

He  nodded  gloomily,  reproachfully. 


CHAPTER  XII 

FROM  drawing  from  the  nude,  which  Eugene  came  to  do 
very  successfully  that  winter,  his  interest  switched  to  his 
work  in  the  illustration  class  where  costume  figures  were  used. 
Here,  for  the  first  time,  he  tried  his  hand  at  wash  drawings, 
the  current  medium  for  magazine  work,  and  was  praised  after 
a  time  for  his  execution.  Not  always,  however ;  for  the  instruc- 
tors, feeling  that  harsh  criticism  would  make  for  steadier  effort, 
pooh-poohed  some  of  his  best  work.  But  he  had  faith  in  what 
he  was  destined  to  do,  and  after  sinking  to  depths  of  despair  he 
would  rise  to  great  heights  of  self-confidence. 

His  labor  for  the  Peoples'  Furniture  Company  was  becom- 
ing a  rather  dreary  grind  when  Vincent  Beers,  the  instructor 
in  the  illustration  class,  looking  over  his  shoulder  one  Wednesday 
afternoon  said : —  "You  ought  to  be  able  to  make  a  little  money 
by  your  work  pretty  soon,  Witla." 

"Do  you  think  so?"  questioned  Eugene. 

"It's  pretty  good.  There  ought  to  be  a  place  on  one  of  the 
newspapers  here  for  a  man  like  you — an  afternoon  newspaper 
possibly.  Did  you  ever  try  to  get  on  ?" 

"I  did  when  I  first  came  to  the  city,  but  they  didn't  want 
anyone.  I'm  rather  glad  they  didn't  now.  I  guess  they  wouldn't 
have  kept  me  very  long." 

"You  draw  in  pen  and  ink  pretty  well,  don't  you?" 

"I  thought  I  liked  that  best  of  all  at  first." 

"Well,  then,  they  ought  to  be  able  to  use  you.  I  wouldn't 
stay  very  long  at  it  though.  You  ought  to  go  to  New  York 
to  get  in  the  magazine  illustration  field — there's  nothing  out 
here.  But  a  little  newspaper  work  now  wouldn't  hurt  you." 

Eugene  decided  to  try  the  afternoon  papers,  for  he  knew  that 
if  he  got  work  on  one  of  these  he  could  still  continue  his  night 
classes.  He  could  give  the  long  evening  session  to  the  illustra- 
tion class  and  take  an  occasional  night  off  to  wrork  on  the  life 
studies.  That  would  make  an  admirable  arrangement.  For 
several  days  he  took  an  hour  after  his  work  to  make  inquiry, 
taking  with  him  some  examples  o£  his  pen  and  inks.  Several  of 
the  men  he  saw  liked  what  he  had  to  show,  but  he  found  no 
immediate  opening.  There  was  only  one  paper,  one  of  the  poor- 
est, that  offered  him  any  encouragement.  The  editor-in-chief 
said  he  might  be  in  need  of  a  man  shortly.  If  Eugene  would 

86 


THE1  GENIUS'  87 

come  in  again  in  three  or  four  weeks  he  could  tell  him.  They 
did  not  pay  very  much — twenty-five  dollars  to  beginners. 

Eugene  thought  of  this  as  a  great  opportunity,  and  when  he 
went  back  in  three  weeks  and  actually  secured  the  place,  he  felt 
that  he  was  now  fairly  on  the  road  to  prosperity.  He  was 
given  a  desk  in  a  small  back  room  on  a  fourth  floor  where  there 
was  accidentally  west  and  north  light.  He  was  in  a  department 
which  held  two  other  men,  both  several  years  older  than  him- 
self, one  of  whom  posed  as  "dean"  of  the  staff. 

The  work  here  was  peculiar  in  that  it  included  not  only  pen 
and  ink  but  the  chalk  plate  process  which  was  a  method  of 
drawing  with  a  steel  point  upon  a  zinc  plate  covered  with  a 
deposit  of  chalk,  which  left  a  design  which  was  easily  repro- 
duced. Eugene  had  never  done  this,  he  had  to  be  shown  by  the 
"dean,"  but  he  soon  picked  it  up.  He  found  it  hard  on  his 
lungs,  for  he  had  constantly  to  keep  blowing  the  chalk  away 
as  he  scratched  the  surface  of  the  plate,  and  sometimes  the  dust 
went  up  into  his  nostrils.  He  hoped  sincerely  there  would  not 
be  much  of  this  work,  but  there  was  rather  an  undue  proportion 
at  first  owing  to  the  fact  that  it  was  shouldered  on  to  him  by 
the  other  two — he  being  the  beginner.  He  suspected  as  much 
after  a  little  time,  but  by  that  time  he  was  beginning  to  make 
friends  with  his  companions  and  things  were  not  so  bad. 

These  two,  although  they  did  not  figure  vastly  in  his  life, 
introduced  him  to  conditions  and  personalities  in  the  Chicago 
newspaper  world  which  broadened  him  and  presented  points  of 
view  which  were  helpful.  The  elder  of  the  two,  the  "dean,"  was 
dressy  and  art-y;  his  name  was  Horace  Howe.  The  other,  Jere- 
miah Mathews,  Jerry  for  short,  was  short  and  fat,  with  a  round, 
cheerful,  smiling  countenance  and  a  wealth  of  coarse  black  hair. 
He  loved  chewing  tobacco,  was  a  little  mussy  about  his  clothes, 
but  studious,  generous  and  good  natured.  Eugene  found  that  he 
had  several  passions,  one  for  good  food,  another  for  oriental 
curios  and  a  third  for  archaeology.  He  was  alive  to  all  that 
was  going  on  in  the  world,  and  was  utterly  without  any  preju- 
dices, social,  moral  or  religious.  He  liked  his  work,  and  whistled 
or  talked  as  he  did  it.  Eugene  took  a  secret  like  for  him  from 
the  beginning. 

It  was  while  working  on  this  paper  that  Eugene  first  learned 
that  he  really  could  write.  It  came  about  accidentally  for  he 
had  abandoned  the  idea  that  he  could  ever  do  anything  in  news- 
paper work,  which  was  the  field  he  had  originally  contemplated. 
Here  there  was  great  need  for  cheap  Sunday  specials  of  a  local 
character,  and  in  reading  some  of  these,  which  were  given  to 


88  THE    "GENIUS" 

him  for  illustration,  he  came  to  the  conclusion  that  he  could 
do  much  better  himself. 

"Say,"  he  asked  Mathews,  "who  writes  the  articles  in  here?" 
He  was  looking  over  the  Sunday  issue. 

"Oh,  the  reporters  on  the  staff — anyone  that  wants  to.  I 
think  they  buy  some  from  outsiders.  They  only  pay  four  dol- 
lars a  column." 

Eugene  wondered  if  they  would  pay  him,  but  pay  or  no  pay  he 
wanted  to  do  them.  Maybe  they  would  let  him  sign  his  name. 
He  saw  that  some  were  signed.  F°  suggested  he  believed 
he  could  do  that  sort  of  thing  but  Howe,  as  a  writer  himself, 
frowned  on  this.  He  wrote  and  drew.  Howe's  opposition 
piqued  Eugene  who  decided  to  try  when  the  opportunity  offered. 
He  wanted  to  write  about  the  Chicago  River,  which  he  thought 
he  could  illustrate  effectively.  Goose  Island,  because  of  the 
description  he  had  read  of  it  several  years  before,  the  simple 
beauties  of  the  city  parks  where  he  liked  to  stroll  and  watch 
the  lovers  on  Sundays.  There  were  many  things,  but  these 
stood  as  susceptible  of  delicious,  feeling  illustration  and  he 
wanted  to  try  his  hand.  He  suggested  to  the  Sunday  Editor, 
Mitchell  Goldfarb,  with  whom  he  had  become  friendly,  that 
he  thought  something  nice  in  an  illustrative  way  could  be  done 
on  the  Chicago  River. 

"Go  ahead,  try  your  hand,"  exclaimed  that  worthy,  who  was 
a  vigorous,  robust,  young  American  of  about  thirty-one,  with  a 
gaspy  laugh  that  sounded  as  if  someone  had  thrown  cold  water 
down  his  back.  "We  need  all  that  stuff.  Can  you  write?" 

"I  sometimes  think  I  might  if  I  practiced  a  little." 

"Why  not,"  went  on  the  other,  who  saw  visions  of  a  little 
free  copy.  "Try  your  hand.  You  might  make  a  good  thing 
of  it.  If  your  writing  is  anything  like  your  drawing  it  will  be 
all  right.  We  don't  pay  people  on  the  staff,  but  you  can  sign 
your  name  to  it." 

This  was  enough  icr  Eugene.  He  tried  his  hand  at  once.  His 
art  work  had  already  begun  to  impress  his  companions.  It  was 
rough,  daring,  incisive,  with  a  touch  of  soul  to  it.  Howe  was 
already  secretly  envious,  Mathews  full  of  admiration*  En- 
couraged thus  by  Goldfarb  Eugene  took  a  Sunday  afternoon  and 
followed  up  the  branches  of  the  Chicago  River,  noting  its  wonders 
and  peculiarities,  and  finally  made  his  drawings.  Afterward  he 
went  to  the  Chicago  library  and  looked  up  its  history — acci- 
dentally coming  across  the  reports  of  some  government  engineers 
who  dwelt  on  the  oddities  of  its  traffic.  He  did  not  write  an 
article  so  much  as  a  panegyric  on  its  beauty  and  littleness,  find- 


THE    "GENIUS'  89 

ing  the  former  where  few  would  have  believed  it  to  exist.  Gold- 
farb  was  oddly  surprised  when  he  read  it.  He  had  not  thought 
Eugene  could  do  it. 

The  charm  of  Eugene's  writing  was  that  while  his  mind  was 
full  of  color  and  poetry  he  had  logic  and  a  desire  for  facts 
which  gave  what  he  wrote  stability.  He  liked  to  know  the  his- 
tory of  things  and  to  comment  on  the  current  phases  of  life.  He 
wrote  of  the  parks,  Goose  Island,  the  Bridewell,  whatever  took 
his  fancy. 

His  real  passion  was  for  art,  however.  It  was  a  slightly 
easier  medium  for  him — quicker.  He  thrilled  to  think,  some- 
times, that  he  could  tell  a  thing  in  words  and  then  actually 
draw  it.  It  seemed  a  beautiful  privilege  and  he  loved  the  thought 
of  making  the  commonplace  dramatic.  It  was  all  dramatic  to 
him — the  wagons  in  the  streets,  the  tall  buildings,  the  street 
lamps — anything,  everything. 

His  drawing  was  not  neglected  meantime,  but  seemed  to  get 
stronger. 

"I  don't  know  what  there  is  about  your  stuff,  Witla,  that 
gets  me/'  Mathews  said  to  him  one  day,  "but  you  do  something 
to  it.  Now  why  did  you  put  those  birds  flying  above  that  smoke- 
stack?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  replied  Eugene.  "It's  just  the  way  I  feel 
about  it.  I've  seen  pigeons  flying  like  that." 

"It's  all  to  the  good,"  replied  Mathews.  "And  then  you 
handle  your  masses  right.  I  don't  see  anybody  doing  this  sort 
of  thing  over  here." 

He  meant  in  America,  for  these  two  art  workers  considered 
themselves  connoisseurs  of  pen  and  ink  and  illustration  generally. 
They  were  subscribers  to  Jugend,  Simplicissimus,  Pick-Me-Up 
and  the  radical  European  art  journals.  They  were  aware  of 
Steinlen  and  Cheret  and  Mucha  and  the  whole  rising  young 
school  of  French  poster  workers.  Eugene  was  surprised  to  hear 
of  these  men  and  these  papers.  He  began  to  gain  confidence  in 
himself — to  think  of  himself  as  somebody. 

It  was  while  he  was  gaining  this  knowledge — finding  out 
who  was  who  and  what  and  why  that  he  followed  up  his  re- 
lationship with  Angela  Blue  to  its  logical  conclusion — he  be- 
came engaged  to  her.  In  spite  of  his  connection  with  Ruby 
Kenny,  which  continued  unbroken  after  the  dinner,  he  neverthe- 
less felt  that  he  must  have  Angela;  partly  because  she  offered 
more  resistance  than  any  girl  since  Stella,  and  partly  because  she 
appeared  to  be  so  innocent,  simple  and  good  hearted.  And  she 
was  altogether  lovely.  She  had  a  beautiful  figure,  which  no 


90  THE    "GENIUS" 

crudity  of  country  dressmaking  could  conceal.  She  had  her  won- 
derful wealth  of  hair  and  her  large,  luring,  wrater-clear  blue  eyes. 
She  had  colorful  lips  and  cheeks,  a  natural  grace  in  walking,  could 
dance  and  play  the  piano.  Eugene  looked  at  her  and  came  to 
the  conclusion  after  a  time  that  she  was  as  beautiful  as  any 
girl  he  had  ever  seen — that  she  had  more  soul,  more  emotion, 
more  sweetness.  He  tried  to  hold  her  hand,  to  kiss  her,  to  take 
her  in  his  arms,  but  she  eluded  him  in  a  careful,  wary  and  yet 
half  yielding  way.  She  wanted  him  to  propose  to  her,  not  because 
she  was  anxious  to  trap  him,  but  because  her  conventional  con- 
science told  her  these  things  were  not  right  outside  a  definite  en- 
gagement and  she  wanted  to  be  engaged  first.  She  was  already 
in  love  with  him.  When  he  pleaded,  she  was  anxious  to  throw 
herself  in  his  arms  in  a  mad  embrace,  but  she  restrained  herself, 
waiting.  At  last  he  flung  his  arms  about  her  as  she  was  sitting 
at  the  piano  one  evening  and  holding  her  tight  pressed  his  lips 
to  her  cheek. 

She  struggled  to  her  feet.  "You  musn't,"  she  said.  "It  isn't 
right.  I  can't  let  you  do  that." 

"But  I  love  you,"  he  exclaimed,  pursuing  her.  "I  want  to 
marry  you.  Will  you  have  me,  Angela?  Will  you  be  mine?" 

She  looked  at  him  yearningly,  for  she  realized  that  she  had 
made  him  do  things  her  way — this  wild,  unpractical,  artistic 
soul.  She  wanted  to  yield  then  and  there  but  something  told  her 
to  wait. 

"I  won't  tell  you  now,"  she  said,  "I  want  to  talk  to  papa  and 
mamma.  I  haven't  told  them  anything  as  yet.  I  want  to  ask 
them  about  you,  and  then  I'll  tell  you  when  I  come  again." 

"Oh,  Angela,"  he  pleaded. 

"Now,  please  wait,  Mr.  Witla,"  she  pleaded.  She  had  never 
yet  called  him  Eugene.  "I'll  come  again  in  two  or  three  weeks. 
I  want  to  think  it  over.  It's  better." 

He  curbed  his  desire  and  waited,  but  it  made  all  the  more  vig- 
orous and  binding  the  illusion  that  she  was  the  one  woman  in 
the  world  for  him.  She  aroused  more  than  any  woman  yet  a 
sense  of  the  necessity  of  concealing  the  eagerness  of  his  senses — 
of  pretending  something  higher.  He  even  tried  to  deceive  himself 
into  the  belief  that  this  was  a  spiritual  relationship,  but  under- 
neath all  was  a  burning  sense  of  her  beauty,  her  physical  charm, 
her  passion.  She  was  sleeping  as  yet,  bound  in  convention  and 
a  semi-religious  interpretation  of  life.  If  she  were  aroused! 
He  closed  his  eyes  and  dreamed. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

IN  two  weeks  Angela  came  back,  ready  to  plight  her  faith ;  and 
Eugene  was  waiting,  eager  to  receive  it.  He  had  planned  to 
meet  her  under  the  smoky  train  shed  of  the  Chicago,  Milwaukee 
and  St.  Paul  depot,  to  escort  her  to  Kinsley's  for  dinner,  to 
bring  her  some  flowers,  to  give  her  a  ring  he  had  secured  in  an- 
ticipation, a  ring  which  had  cost  him  seventy-five  dollars  and 
consumed  quite  all  his  savings;  but  she  was  too  regardful  of  the 
drama  of  the  situation  to  meet  him  anywhere  but  in  the  parlor 
of  her  aunt's  house,  where  she  could  look  as  she  wished.  She 
wrote  that  she  must  come  down  early  and  when  he  arrived  at 
eight  of  a  Saturday  evening  she  was  dressed  in  the  dress  that 
seemed  most  romantic  to  her,  the  one  she  had  worn  when  she 
first  met  him  at  Alexandria.  She  half  suspected  that  he  would 
bring  flowers  and  so  wore  none,  and  when  he  came  with  pink 
roses,  she  added  those  to  her  corsage.  She  was  a  picture  of 
rosy  youth  and  trimness  and  not  unlike  the  character  by  whose 
name  he  had  christened  her — the  fair  Elaine  of  Arthur's  court. 
Her  yellow  hair  was  done  in  a  great  mass  that  hung  sensuously 
about  her  neck;  her  cheeks  were  rosy  with  the  elation  of  the 
hour;  her  lips  moist;  her  eyes  bright.  She  fairly  sparkled  her 
welcome  as  he  entered. 

At  the  sight  of  her  Eugene  was  beside  himself.  He  was  al- 
ways at  the  breaking  point  over  any  romantic  situation.  The 
beauty  of  the  idea — the  beauty  of  love  as  love;  the  delight  of 
youth  filled  his  mind  as  a  song  might,  made  him  tense,  feverish, 
enthusiastic. 

"You're  here  at  last,  Angela!"  he  said,  trying  to  keep  hold  of 
her hands.  "What  word?" 

"Oh,  you  musn't  ask  so  soon,"  she  replied.  "I  want  to  talk 
to  you  first.  I'll  play  you  something." 

"No,"  he  said,  following  her  as  she  backed  toward  the  piano. 
"I  want  to  know.  I  must.  I  can't  wait." 

"I  haven't  made  up  my  mind,"  she  pleaded  evasively.  "I 
want  to  think.  You  had  better  let  me  play." 

"Oh,  no,"  he  urged. 

"Yes,  let  me  play." 

She  ignored  him  and  swept  into  the  composition,  but  all  the 
while  she  was  conscious  of  him  hovering  over  her — a  force.  At 
the  close,  when  she  had  been  made  even  more  emotionally  respon- 


92  THE    "GENIUS" 

sive  by  the  suggestion  of  the  music,  he  slipped  his  arms  about  her 
as  he  had  once  before,  but  she  struggled  away  again,  slipping  to 
a  corner  and  standing  at  bay.  He  liked  her  flushed  face,  her 
shaken  hair,  the  roses  awry  at  her  waist. 

"You  must  tell  me  now,"  he  said,  standing  before  her.  "Will 
you  have  me  ?" 

She  dropped  her  head  down  as  though  doubting,  and  fearing 
familiarities;  he  slipped  to  one  knee  to  see  her  eyes.  Then,  look- 
ing up,  he  caught  her  about  the  waist.  "Will  you?"  he  asked. 

She  looked  at  his  soft  hair,  dark  and  thick,  his  smooth  pale 
brow,  his  black  eyes  and  even  chin.  She  wanted  to  yield  dra- 
matically and  this  was  dramatic  enough.  She  put  her  hands  to 
his  head,  bent  over  and  looked  into  his  eyes;  her  hair  fell  forward 
about  her  face.  "Will  you  be  good  to  me?"  she  asked,  yearning 
into  his  eyes. 

"Yes,  yes,"  he  declared.  "You  know  that.  Oh,  I  love  you 
so." 

She  put  his  head  far  back  and  laid  her  lips  to  his.  There  was 
fire,  agony  in  it.  She  held  him  so  and  then  he  stood  up  heaping 
kisses  upon  her  cheeks,  her  lips,  her  eyes,  her  neck. 

"Good  God!"  he  exclaimed,  "how  wonderful  you  are!" 

The  expression  shocked  her. 

"You  mustn't,"  she  said. 

"I  can't  help  it.    You  are  so  beautiful!" 

She  forgave  him  for  the  compliment. 

There  were  burning  moments  after  this,  moments  in  which 
they  clung  to  each  other  desperately,  moments  in  which  he  took 
her  in  his  arms,  moments  in  which  he  whispered  his  dreams  of 
the  future.  He  took  the  ring  he  had  bought  and  put  it  on  her 
finger.  He  was  going  to  be  a  great  artist,  she  was  going  to  be 
an  artist's  bride;  he  was  going  to  paint  her  lovely  face,  her  hair, 
her  form.  If  he  wanted  love  scenes  he  would  paint  these  which 
they  were  now  living  together.  They  talked  until  one  in  the 
morning  and  then  she  begged  him  to  go,  but  he  would  not.  At 
two  he  left,  only  to  come  early  the  next  morning  to  take  her 
to  church. 

There  ensued  for  Eugene  a  rather  astonishing  imaginative  and 
emotional  period  in  which  he  grew  in  perception  of  things  liter- 
ary and  artistic  and  in  dreams  of  what  marriage  with  Angela 
would  mean  to  him.  There  was  a  peculiar  awareness  about 
Eugene  at  this  time,  which  was  leading  him  into  an  understand- 
ing of  things.  The  extraordinary  demands  of  some  phases  of 
dogma  in  the  matter  of  religion ;  the  depths  of  human  perversity 
in  the  matter  of  morality ;  the  fact  that  there  were  worlds  within 


THE    "GENIUS'5  93 

worlds  of  our  social  organism;  that  really  basically  and  actually 
there  was  no  fixed  and  definite  understanding  of  anything  by 
anybody.  From  Mathews  he  learned  of  philosophies — Kant, 
Hegel,  Schopenhauer — faint  inklings  of  what  they  believed. 
From  association  with  Howe  he  heard  of  current  authors  wrho 
expressed  new  moods,  Pierre  Loti,  Thomas  Hardy,  Maeterlinck, 
Tolstoi.  Eugene  was  no  person  to  read — he  was  too  eager  to 
live, — but  he  gained  much  by  conversation  and  he  liked  to  talk. 
He  began  to  think  he  could  do  almost  anything  if  he  tried — write 
poems,  write  plays,  write  stories,  paint,  illustrate,  etc.  He  used 
to  conceive  of  himself  as  a  general,  an  orator,  a  politician — 
thinking  how  wonderful  he  would  be  if  he  could  set  himself  defi- 
nitely to  any  one  thing.  Sometimes  he  would  recite  passages  from 
great  speeches  he  had  composed  in  his  imagination  as  he  walked. 
The  saving  grace  in  his  whole  make-up  was  that  he  really  loved 
to  work  and  he  would  work  at  the  things  he  could  do.  He  would 
not  shirk  his  assignments  or  dodge  his  duties. 

After  his  evening  class  Eugene  would  sometimes  go  out  to 
Ruby's  house,  getting  there  by  eleven  and  being  admitted  by  an 
arrangement  with  her  that  the  front  door  be  left  open  so  that 
he  could  enter  quietly.  More  than  once  he  found  her  sleeping 
in  her  little  room  off  the  front  room,  arrayed  in  a  red  silk  dress- 
ing gown  and  curled  up  like  a  little  black-haired  child.  She 
knew  he  liked  her  art  instincts  and  she  strove  to  gratify  them, 
affecting  the  peculiar  and  the  exceptional.  She  would  place 
a  candle  under  a  red  shade  on  a  small  table  by  her  bed  and  pre- 
tend to  have  been  reading,  the  book  being  usually  tossed  to  one 
side  on  the  coverlet  where  he  would  see  it  lying  when  he  came. 
He  would  enter  silently,  gathering  her  up  in  his  arms  as  she 
dozed,  kissing  her  lips  to  waken  her,  carrying  her  in  his  arms  into 
the  front  room  to  caress  her  and  whisper  his  passion.  There  was 
no  cessation  of  this  devotion  to  Ruby  the  while  he  was  declaring 
his  love  for  Angela,  and  he  really  did  not  see  that  the  two  inter- 
fered greatly.  He  loved  Angela,  he  thought.  He  liked  Ruby, 
thought  she  was  sweet.  He  felt  sorry  for  her  at  times  because 
she  was  such  a  little  thing,  so  unthinking.  Who  wras  going  to 
marry  her  eventually?  What  was  going  to  become  of  her? 

Because  of  this  very  attitude  he  fascinated  the  girl  who  was 
soon  ready  to  do  anything  for  him.  She  dreamed  dreams  of  how 
nice  it  would  be  if  they  could  live  in  just  a  little  flat  together — 
all  alone.  She  would  give  up  her  art  posing  and  just  keep  house 
for  him.  He  talked  to  her  of  this — imagining  it  might  possibly 
come  to  pass — realizing  quite  fully  that  it  probably  wouldn't. 
He  wanted  Angela  for  his  wife,  but  if  he  had  money  he  thought 


94  THE    "GENIUS' 

Ruby  and  he  might  keep  a  separate  place — somehow.  What 
Angela  would  think  of  this  did  not  trouble  him — only  that  she 
should  not  know.  He  never  breathed  anything  to  either  of  the 
other,  but  there  were  times  when  he  wondered  what  they  would 
think  each  of  the  other  if  they  knew.  Money,  money,  that  was 
the  great  deterrent.  For  lack  of  money  he  could  not  marry  any- 
body at  present — neither  Angela  nor  Ruby  nor  anyone  else.  His 
first  duty,  he  thought,  was  so  to  place  himself  financially  that  he 
could  talk  seriously  to  any  girl.  That  was  what  Angela  expected 
of  him,  he  knew.  That  was  what  he  would  have  to  have  if  he 
wanted  Ruby. 

There  came  a  time  when  the  situation  began  to  grow  irksome. 
He  had  reached  the  point  where  he  began  to  understand  how 
limited  his  life  was.  Mathews  and  Howe,  who  drew  more 
money,  were  able  to  live  better  than  he.  They  went  out  to  mid- 
night suppers,  theatre  parties,  and  expeditions  to  the  tenderloin 
section  (not  yet  known  by  that  name).  They  had  time  to  browse 
about  the  sections  of  the  city  which  had  peculiar  charms  for  them 
as  Bohemians  after  dark — the  levee,  as  a  certain  section  of  the 
Chicago  River  was  called ;  Gambler's  Row  in  South  Clark 
Street;  the  Whitechapel  Club,  as  a  certain  organization  of  news- 
paper men  was  called,  and  other  places  frequented  by  the  literati 
and  the  more  talented  of  the  newspaper  makers.  Eugene,  first 
because  of  a  temperament  which  was  introspective  and  reflective, 
and  second  because  of  his  aesthetic  taste,  which  was  offended  by 
much  that  he  thought  was  tawdry  and  cheap  about  these  places, 
and  third  by  what  he  considered  his  lack  of  means,  took  practi- 
cally no  part  in  these  diversions.  While  he  worked  in  his  class 
he  heard  of  these  things — usually  the  next  day — and  they  were 
amplified  and  made  more  showy  and  interesting  by  the  narrative 
powers  of  the  participants.  Eugene  hated  coarse,  vulgar  women 
and  ribald  conduct,  but  he  felt  that  he  was  not  even  permitted 
to  see  them  at  close  range  had  he  wanted  to.  It  took  money  to 
carouse  and  he  did  not  have  it. 

Perhaps,  because  of  his  youth  and  a  certain  air  of  unsophisti- 
cation  and  impracticability  which  wrent  with  him,  his  employers 
were  not  inclined  to  consider  money  matters  in  connection  with 
him.  They  seemed  to  think  he  would  work  for  little  and  would 
not  mind.  He  was  allowed  to  drift  here  six  months  without  a 
sign  of  increase,  though  he  really  deserved  more  than  any  one  of 
those  who  worked  with  him  during  the  same  period.  He  was  not 
the  one  to  push  his  claims  personally  but  he  grew  restless  and 
slightly  embittered  under  the  strain  and  ached  to  be  free,  though 
his  work  was  as  effective  as  ever. 


THE   "'GENIUS'  95 

It  was  this  indifference  on  their  part  which  fixed  his  deter- 
mination to  leave  Chicago,  although  Angela,  his  art  career,  his 
natural  restlessness  and  growing  judgment  of  what  he  might 
possibly  become  were  deeper  incentives.  Angela  haunted  him  as 
a  dream  of  future  peace.  If  he  could  marry  her  and  settle  down 
he  would  be  happy.  He  felt  now,  having  fairly  satiated  himself 
in  the  direction  of  Ruby,  that  he  might  leave  her.  She  really 
would  not  care  so  very  much.  Her  sentiments  were  not  deep 
enough.  Still,  he  knew  she  would  care,  and  when  he  began 
going  less  regularly  to  her  home,  really  becoming  indifferent  to 
what  she  did  in  the  artists*  world,  he  began  also  to  feel  ashamed 
of  himself,  for  he  knew  that  it  was  a  cruel  thing  to  do.  He  saw 
by  her  manner  when  he  absented  himself  that  she  was  hurt  and 
that  she  knew  he  was  growing  cold. 

"Are  you  coming  out  Sunday  night?"  she  asked  him  once,  wist- 
fully. 

"I  can't,"  he  apologized;  "I  have  to  work." 

"Yes,  I  know  how  you  have  to  work.  But  go  on.  I  don't 
mind,  I  know." 

"Oh,  Ruby,  how  you  talk.     I  can't  always  be  here." 

"I  know  what  it  is,  Eugene,"  she  replied.  "You  don't  care 
any  more.  Oh,  well,  don't  mind  me." 

"Now,  sweet,  don't  talk  like  that,"  he  would  say,  but  after 
he  was  gone  she  would  stand  by  her  window  and  look  out  upon 
the  shabby  neighborhood  and  sigh  sadly.  He  was  more  to  her 
than  anyone  she  had  met  yet,  but  she  was  not  the  kind  that 
cried. 

"He  is  going  to  leave  me,"  was  her  one  thought.  "He  is 
going  to  leave  me." 

Goldfarb  had  watched  Eugene  a  long  time,  was  interested  in 
him,  realized  that  he  had  talent.  He  was  leaving  shortly  to 
take  a  better  Sunday-Editorship  himself  on  a  larger  paper,  and 
he  thought  Eugene  was  wasting  his  time  and  ought  to  be  told 
so. 

"I  think  you  ought  to  try  to  get  on  one  of  the  bigger  papers 
here,  Witla,"  he  said  to  him  one  Saturday  afternoon  when  things 
were  closing  up.  "You'll  never  amount  to  anything  on  this 
paper.  It  isn't  big  enough.  You  ought  to  get  on  one  of  the  big 
ones.  Why  don't  you  try  the  Tribune — or  else  go  to  New  York? 
I  think  you  ought  to  do  magazine  work." 

Eugene  drank  it  all  in.  "I've  been  thinking  of  that,"  he  said. 
"I  think  I'll  go  to  New  York.  I'll  be  better  off  there." 

"I  would  either  do  one  or  the  other.  If  you  stay  too  long 
in  a  place  like  this  it's  apt  to  do  you  harm." 


96  THE    "GENIUS'1 

Eugene  went  back  to  his  desk  with  the  thought  of  change 
ringing  in  his  ears.  He  would  go.  He  would  save  up  his  money 
until  he  had  one  hundred  and  fifty  or  two  hundred  dollars  and 
then  try  his  luck  in  the  East.  He  would  leave  Ruby  and  Angela, 
the  latter  only  temporarily,  the  former  for  good  very  likely, 
though  he  only  vaguely  confessed  this  to  himself.  He  would 
make  some  money  and  then  he  would  come  back  and  marry  his 
dream  from  Blackwood.  Already  his  imaginative  mind  ran  for- 
ward to  a  poetic  wedding  in  a  little  country  church,  with  An- 
gela standing  beside  him  in  white.  Then  he  would  bring  her 
back  with  him  to  New  York — he,  Eugene  Witla,  already  famous 
in  the  East.  Already  the  lure  of  the  big  eastern  city  was  in 
his  mind,  its  palaces,  its  wealth,  its  fame.  It  was  the  great 
world  he  knew,  this  side  of  Paris  and  London.  He  would  go 
to  it  now,  shortly.  What  would  he  be  there?  How  great? 
How  soon? 

So  he  dreamed. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

ONCE  this  idea  of  New  York  was  fixed  in  his  mind  as  a 
necessary  step  in  his  career,  it  was  no  trouble  for  him  to 
carry  it  out.  He  had  already  put  aside  sixty  dollars  in  a  sav- 
ings bank  since  he  had  given  Angela  the  ring  and  he  decided  to 
treble  it  as  quickly  as  possible  and  then  start.  He  fancied  that 
all  he  needed  was  just  enough  to  live  on  for  a  little  while  until 
he  could  get  a  start.  If  he  could  not  sell  drawings  to  the  maga- 
zines he  might  get  a  place  on  a  newspaper  and  anyhow  he  felt 
confident  that  he  could  live.  He  communicated  to  Howe  and 
Mathews  his  intention  of  going  East  pretty  soon  and  aroused 
in  their  respective  bosoms  the  emotions  which  were  characteristic 
of  each.  Howe,  envious  from  the  start,  was  glad  to  have  him  off 
the  paper,  but  regretful  of  the  stellar  career  which  his  determina- 
tion foreboded.  He  half  suspected  now  that  Eugene  would  do 
something  exceptional — he  was  so  loose  in  his  moods — so  eccen- 
tric. Mathews  was  glad  for  Eugene  and  a  little  sorry  for  him- 
self. He  wished  he  had  Eugene's  courage,  his  fire,  his  talent. 

"You'll  make  good  when  you  get  down  there,"  Mathews  said 
to  him  one  afternoon  when  Howe  was  out  of  the  room,  for  he 
realized  that  the  latter  was  jealous.  "You've  got  the  stuff. 
Some  of  the  work  you  have  done  here  will  give  you  a  fine  intro- 
duction. I  wish  I  were  going." 

"Why  don't  you?"  suggested  Eugene. 

"Who?  me?  What  good  would  it  do  me?  I'm  not  ready 
yet.  I  can't  do  that  sort  of  stuff.  I  might  go  down  some  time." 

"I  think  you  do  good  work,"  said  Eugene  generously.  He 
really  did  not  believe  it  was  good  art,  but  it  was  fair  news- 
paper sketching. 

"Oh,  no,  you  don't  mean  that,  Witla,"  replied  Mathews.  "I 
know  what  I  can  do." 

Eugene  was  silent. 

"I  wish  when  you  get  down  there,"  went  on  Mathews,  "you 
would  write  us  occasionally.  I  would  like  to  know  how  you  are 
getting  along." 

"Sure,  I'll  write,"  replied  Eugene,  flattered  by  the  interest 
his  determination  had  aroused.  "Sure  I  will."  But  he  never 
did. 

In  Ruby  and  Angela  he  had  two  problems  to  adjust  which 
were  not  so  easy.  In  the  one  case  it  was  sympathy,  regret,  sor- 

97 


98  THE   "GENIUS" 

row  for  her  helplessness,  her  hopelessness.  She  was  so  sweet  and 
lovely  in  her  way,  but  not  quite  big  enough  mentally  or  emo- 
tionally for  him.  Could  he  really  live  with  her  if  he  wanted 
to?  Could  he  substitute  her  for  a  girl  like  Angela?  Could  he? 
And  now  he  had  involved  Angela,  for  since  her  return  to  tell 
him  that  she  accepted  him  as  her  affianced  lover,  there  had  been 
some  scenes  between  them  in  which  a  new  standard  of  emotion 
had  been  set  for  him.  This  girl  who  looked  so  simple  and  inno- 
cent was  burning  at  times  with  a  wild  fire.  It  snapped  in  her 
eyes  when  Eugene  undid  her  wonderful  hair  and  ran  his  hands 
through  its  heavy  strands.  "The  Rhine  Maiden/'  he  would  say. 
"Little  Lorelei!  You  are  like  the  mermaid  waiting  to  catch 
the  young  lover  in  the  strands  of  her  hair.  You  are  Marguerite 
and  I  Faust.  You  are  a  Dutch  Gretchen.  I  love  this  wonder- 
ful hair  when  it  is  braided.  Oh,  sweet,  you  perfect  creature! 
I  will  put  you  in  a  painting  yet.  I  will  make  you  famous." 

Angela  thrilled  to  this.  She  burned  in  a  flame  which  was  of 
his  fanning.  She  put  her  lips  to  his  in  long  hot  kisses,  sat  on 
his  knee  and  twined  her  hair  about  his  neck;  rubbed  his  face  with 
it  as  one  might  bathe  a  face  in  strands  of  silk.  Finding  such  a 
response  he  went  wild,  kissed  her  madly,  would  have  been  still 
more  masterful  had  she  not,  at  the  slightest  indication  of  his 
audacity,  leaped  from  his  embrace,  not  opposition  but  self  pro- 
tection in  her  eyes.  She  pretended  to  think  better  of  his  love, 
and  Eugene,  checked  by  her  ideal  of  him,  tried  to  restrain  him- 
self. He  did  manage  to  desist  because  he  was  sure  that  he 
could  not  do  what  he  wanted  to.  Daring  such  as  that  would 
end  her  love.  So  they  wrestled  in  affection. 

It  was  the  fall  following  his  betrothal  to  Angela  that  he 
actually  took  his  departure.  He  had  drifted  through  the  sum- 
mer, pondering.  He  had  stayed  away  from  Ruby  more  and 
more,  and  finally  left  without  saying  good-bye  to  her,  though 
he  thought  up  to  the  last  that  he  intended  to  go  out  and  see  her. 

As  for  Angela,  when  it  came  to  parting  from  her,  he  was  in 
a  depressed  and  downcast  mood.  He  thought  now  that  he  did 
not  really  want  to  go  to  New  York,  but  was  being  drawn  by 
fate.  There  was  no  money  for  him  in  the  West;  they  could  not 
live  on  what  he  could  earn  there.  Hence  he  must  go  and  in 
doing  so  must  lose  her.  It  looked  very  tragic. 

Out  at  her  aunt's  house,  where  she  came  for  the  Saturday  and 
Sunday  preceding  his  departure,  he  walked  the  floor  with  her 
gloomily,  counted  the  lapse  of  the  hours  after  which  he  would 
be  with  her  no  more,  pictured  the  day  when  he  would  return 
successful  to  fetch  her.  Angela  had  a  faint  foreboding  fear  of 


THE    "GENIUS"  99 

the  events  which  might  intervene.  She  had  read  stories  of  artists 
who  had  gone  to  the  city  and  had  never  come  back.  Eugene 
seemed  such  a  wonderful  person,  she  might  not  hold  him;  and 
yet  he  had  given  her  his  word  and  he  was  madly  in  love  with 
her — no  doubt  of  that.  That  fixed,  passionate,  yearning  look  in 
his  eyes — what  did  it  mean  if  not  enduring,  eternal  love?  Life 
had  brought  her  a  great  treasure — a  great  love  and  an  artist  for 
a  lover. 

"Go,  Eugene!"  she  cried  at  last  tragically,  almost  melodra- 
matically. His  face  was  in  her  hands.  "I  will  wait  for  you. 
You  need  never  have  one  uneasy  thought.  When  you  are  ready 
I  will  be  here,  only,  come  soon — you  will,  won't  you  ?" 

"Will  I!"  he  declared,  kissing  her,  "will  I?'  Look  at  me. 
Don't  you  know?" 

"Yes!  Yes!  Yes!"  she  exclaimed,  "of  course  I  know.  Oh, 
yes!  yes!" 

The  rest  was  a  passionate  embrace.  And  then  they  parted. 
He  went  out  brooding  over  the  subtlety  and  the  tragedy  of  life. 
The  sharp  October  stars  saddened  him  more.  It  was  a  wonder- 
ful world  but  bitter  to  endure  at  times.  Still  it  could  be  en- 
dured and  there  was  happiness  and  peace  in  store  for  him  prob- 
ably. He  and  Angela  would  find  it  together  living  in  each  other's 
company,  living  in  each  other's  embrace  and  by  each  other's 
kisses.  It  must  be  so.  The  whole  world  believed  it — even  he, 
after  Stella  and  Margaret  and  Ruby  and  Angela.  Even  he. 

The  train  which  bore  him  to  New  York  bore  a  very  medita- 
tive young  man.  As  it  pulled  out  through  the  great  railroad 
yards  of  the  city,  past  the  shabby  back  yards  of  the  houses,  the 
street  crossings  at  grade,  the  great  factories  and  elevators,  he 
thought  of  that  other  time  when  he  had  first  ventured  in  the  city. 
How  different!  Then  he  was  so  green,  so  raw.  Since  then 
he  had  become  a  newspaper  artist,  he  could  write,  he  could  find 
his  tongue  with  women,  he  knew  a  little  something  about  the 
organization  of  the  world.  He  had  not  saved  any  money,  true, 
but  he  had  gone  through  the  art  school,  had  given  Angela  a  dia- 
mond ring,  had  this  two  hundred  dollars  with  which  he  was 
venturing  to  reconnoitre  the  great  social  metropolis  of  the  coun- 
try. He  was  passing  Fifty-seventh  Street;  he  recognized  the 
neighborhood  he  traversed  so  often  in  visiting  Ruby.  He  had 
not  said  good-bye  to  her  and  there  in  the  distance  were  the  rows  of 
commonplace,  two  family  frame  dwellings,  one  of  which  she 
occupied  with  her  foster  parents.  Poor  little  Ruby!  and  she  liked 
him.  It  was  a  shame,  but  what  was  he  to  do  about  it?  He  didn't 
care  for  her.  It  really  hurt  him  to  think  and  then  he  tried  not 


ioo  THE    "GENIUS" 

to  remember.  These  tragedies  of  the  world  could  not  be  healed 
by  thinking. 

The  train  passed  out  into  the  flat  fields  of  northern  Indiana 
and  as  little  country  towns  flashed  past  he  thought  of  Alexandria 
and  how  he  had  pulled  up  his  stakes  and  left  it.  What  was 
Jonas  Lyle  doing  and  John  Summers?  Myrtle  wrote  that 
she  wTas  going  to  be  married  in  the  spring.  She  had  delayed 
solely  because  she  wanted  to  delay.  He  thought  sometimes  that 
Myrtle  was  a  little  like  himself,  fickle  in  her  moods.  He  was 
sure  he  would  never  want  to  go  back  to  Alexandria  except  for 
a  short  visit,  and  yet  the  thought  of  his  father  and  his  mother 
and  his  old  home  were  sweet  to  him.  His  father!  How  little 
he  knew  of  the  real  world! 

As  they  passed  out  of  Pittsburgh  he  saw  for  the  first  time 
the  great  mountains,  raising  their  heads  in  solemn  majesty  in 
the  dark,  and  great  lines  of  coke  ovens,  flaming  red  tongues  of 
fire.  He  saw  men  working,  and  sleeping  towns  succeeding  one 
another.  What  a  great  country  America  was!  What  a  great 
thing  to  be  an  artist  here!  Millions  of  people  and  no  vast 
artistic  voice  to  portray  these  things — these  simple  dramatic 
things  like  the  coke  ovens  in  the  night.  If  he  could  only  do  it! 
If  he  could  only  stir  the  whole  country,  so  that  his  name  would 
be  like  that  of  Dore  in  France  or  Verestchagin  in  Russia.  If  he 
could  but  get  fire  into  his  work,  the  fire  he  felt ! 

He  got  into  his  berth  after  a  time  and  looked  out  on  the  dark 
night  and  the  stars,  longing,  and  then  he  dozed.  When  he 
awoke  again  the  train  had  already  passed  Philadelphia.  It 
was  morning  and  the  cars  were  speeding  across  the  flat  meadows 
toward  Trenton.  He  arose  and  dressed,  watching  the  array  of 
towns  the  while,  Trenton,  New  Brunswick,  Metuchen,  Eliza- 
beth. Somehow  this  country  was  like  Illinois,  flat.  After  New- 
ark they  rushed  out  upon  a  great  meadow  and  he  caught  the  sense 
of  the  sea.  It  was  beyond  this.  These  \vere  tide-water  streams, 
the  Passaic  and  the  Hackensack,  with  small  ships  and  coal  and 
brick  barges  tied  at  the  water  side.  The  thrill  of  something 
big  overtook  him  as  the  brakeman  began  to  call  "Jersey  City," 
and  as  he  stepped  out  into  the  vast  train  shed  his  heart  misgave 
him  a  little.  He  was  all  alone  in  New  York.  It  was  wealthy, 
cold  and  critical.  How  should  he  prosper  here?  He  walked 
out  through  the  gates  to  where  low  arches  concealed  ferry  boats, 
and  in  another  moment  it  was  before  him,  sky  line,  bay,  the 
Hudson,  the  Statue  of  Liberty,  ferry  boats,  steamers,  liners,  all 
in  a  grey  mist  of  fierce  rain  and  the  tugs  and  liners  blowing 
mournfully  upon  great  whistles.  It  was  something  he  could 


THE    "GENIUS'  101 

never  have  imagined  without  seeing  it,  and  this  swish  of  real 
salt  water,  rolling  in  heavy  waves,  spoke  to  him  as  music  might, 
exalting  his  soul.  What  a  wonderful  thing  this  was,  this  sea — 
where  ships  were  and  whales  and  great  mysteries.  What  a 
wonderful  thing  New  York  was,  set  down  by  it,  surrounded  by 
it,  this  metropolis  of  the  country.  Here  was  the  sea ;  yonder  were 
the  great  docks  that  held  the  vessels  that  sailed  to  the  ports  of 
all  the  world.  He  saw  them — great  grey  and  black  hulls,  tied 
to  long  piers  jutting  out  into  the  water.  He  listened  to  the 
whistles,  the  swish  of  the  water,  saw  the  circling  gulls,  realized 
emotionally  the  mass  of  people.  Here  were  Jay  Gould  and 
Russell  Sage  and  the  Vanderbilts  and.  Morgan — all  alive  and 
all  here.  Wall  Street,  Fifth  Avenue,  Madison  Square,  Broad- 
way— he  knew  of  these  by  reputation.  How  would  he  do  here — 
how  fare?  Would  the  city  ever  acclaim  him  as  it  did  some?  He 
looked  wide  eyed,  with  an  open  heart,  with  intense  and  immense 
appreciation.  Well,  he  was  going  to  enter,  going  to  try.  He 
could  do  that — perhaps,  perhaps.  But  he  felt  lonely.  He  wished 
he  were  back  with  Angela  where  her  soft  arms  could  shut  him 
safe.  He  wished  he  might  feel  her  hands  on  his  cheeks,  his  hair. 
He  would  not  need  to  fight  alone  then.  But  now  he  was  alone, 
and  the  city  was  roaring  about  him,  a  great  noise  like  the  sea. 
He  must  enter  and  do  battle. 


CHAPTER  XV 

NOT  knowing  routes  or  directions  in  New  York,  Eugene 
took  a  Desbrosses  Street  ferry,  and  coming  into  West 
Street  wandered  along  that  curious  thoroughfare  staring  at  the 
dock  entrances.  Manhattan  Island  seemed  a  little  shabby  to 
him  from  this  angle  but  he  thought  that  although  physically, 
perhaps,  it  might  not  be  distinguished,  there  must  be  other  things 
which  made  it  wronderful.  Later  when  he  saw  the  solidity  of 
it,  the  massed  houses,  the  persistent  streams  of  people,  the  crush 
of  traffic,  it  dawned  on  him  that  mere  humanity  in  packed  num- 
bers makes  a  kind  of  greatness,  and  this  was  the  island's  first 
characteristic.  There  were  others,  like  the  prevailing  lowness 
of  the  buildings  in  its  old  neighborhoods,  the  narrowness  of 
the  streets  in  certain  areas,  the  shabbiness  of  brick  and  stone 
when  they  have  seen  an  hundred  years  of  weather,  which  struck 
him  as  curious  or  depressing.  He  was  easily  touched  by  ex- 
terior conditions. 

As  he  wandered  he  kept  looking  for  some  place  where  he  might 
like  to  live,  some  house  that  had  a  yard  or  a  tree.  At  length 
he  found  a  row  of  houses  in  lower  Seventh  Avenue  with  an 
array  of  iron  balconies  in  front  which  appealed  to  him.  He 
applied  here  and  in  one  house  found  a  room  for  four  dollars 
which  he  thought  he  had  better  take  for  the  present.  It  was 
cheaper  than  any  hotel.  His  hostess  was  a  shabby  woman  in 
black  who  made  scarcely  any  impression  on  him  as  a  personality, 
merely  giving  him  a  thought  as  to  what  a  dreary  thing  it  was  to 
keep  roomers  and  the  room  itself  was  nothing,  a  commonplace, 
but  he  had  a  new  world  before  him  and  all  his  interests  were  out- 
side. He  wanted  to  see  this  city.  He  deposited  his  grip  and 
sent  for  his  trunk  and  then  took  to  the  streets,  having  come  to 
see  and  hear  things  which  would  be  of  advantage  to  him. 

He  went  about  this  early  relationship  to  the  city  in  the  right 
spirit.  For  a  little  while  he  did  not  try  to  think  what  he  would 
do,  but  struck  out  and  walked,  here,  there  and  everywhere,  this 
very  first  day  down  Broadway  to  the  City  Hall  and  up  Broad- 
way from  1 4th  to  42nd  street  the  same  night.  Soon  he  knew  all 
Third  Avenue  and  the  Bowery,  the  wonders  of  Fifth  Avenue  and 
Riverside  Drive,  the  beauties  of  the  East  River,  the  Battery, 
Central  Park  and  the  lower  East  Side.  He  sought  out  quickly 
the  wonders  of  metropolitan  life — its  crowds  at  dinner  and 

102 


THE    "GENIUS'5  103 

theatre  time  in  Broadway,  its  tremendous  throngs  morning  and 
afternoon  in  the  shopping  district,  its  amazing  world  of  carriages 
in  Fifth  Avenue  and  Central  Park.  He  had  marveled  at  wealth 
and  luxury  in  Chicago,  but  here  it  took  his  breath  away.  It 
was  obviously  so  much  more  fixed,  so  definite  and  comprehen- 
sible. Here  one  felt  intuitively  the  far  reaches  which  separate 
the  ordinary  man  from  the  scion  of  wealth.  It  curled  him  up 
like  a  frozen  leaf,  dulled  his  very  soul,  and  gave  him  a  clear 
sense  of  his  position  in  the  social  scale.  He  had  come  here  with 
a  pretty  high  estimate  of  himself,  but  daily,  as  he  looked, 
he  felt  himself  crumbling.  What  was  he?  What  was  art? 
What  did  the  city  care?  It  was  much  more  interested  in  other 
things,  in  dressing,  eating,  visiting,  riding  abroad.  The  lower 
part  of  the  island  was  filled  with  cold  commercialism  which 
frightened  him.  In  the  upper  half,  which  concerned  only  women 
and  show — a  voluptuous  sybaritism — caused  him  envy.  He 
had  but  two  hundred  dollars  with  which  to  fight  his  way,  and 
this  was  the  world  he  must  conquer. 

Men  of  Eugene's  temperament  are  easily  depressed.  He  first 
gorged  the  spectacle  of  life  and  then  suffered  from  mental  in- 
digestion. He  saw  too  much  of  it  too  quickly.  He  wandered 
about  for  weeks,  looking  in  the  shop  windows,  the  libraries, 
the  museums,  the  great  streets,  growing  all  the  while  more  de- 
spondent. At  night  he  would  return  to  his  bare  room  and  indite 
long  epistles  to  Angela,  describing  what  he  had  seen  and  telling 
her  of  his  undying  love  for  her — largely  because  he  had  no  other 
means  of  ridding  himself  of  his  superabundant  vitality  and 
moods.  They  were  beautiful  letters,  full  of  color  and  feeling, 
but  to  Angela  they  gave  a  false  impression  of  emotion  and  sin- 
cerity because  they  appeared  to  be  provoked  by  absence  from 
her.  In  part  of  course  they  were,  but  far  more  largely  they  were 
the  result  of  loneliness  and  the  desire  for  expression  which  this 
vast  spectacle  of  life  itself  incited.  He  also  sent  her  some  tenta- 
tive sketches  of  things  he  had  seen — a  large  crowd  in  the  dark 
at  34th  Street;  a  boat  off  86th  Street  in  the  East  River  in  the 
driving  rain ;  a  barge  with  cars  being  towed  by  a  tug.  He  could 
not  think  exactly  what  to  do  with  these  things  at  that  time, 
but  he  wanted  to  try  his  hand  at  illustrating  for  the  magazines. 
He  was  a  little  afraid  of  these  great  publications,  however,  for 
now  that  he  was  on  the  ground  with  them  his  art  did  not  appear 
so  significant. 

It  was  during  the  first  few  weeks  that  he  received  his  only 
letter  from  Ruby.  His  parting  letter  to  her,  written  when  he 
reached  New  York,  had  been  one  of  those  makeshift  affairs  which 


104  THE    "GENIUS'1 

faded  passion  indites.  He  was  so  sorry  he  had  to  leave  without 
seeing  her.  He  had  intended  to  come  out  but  the  rush  of  prepa- 
ration at  the  last  moment,  and  so  forth;  he  hoped  to  come  back 
to  Chicago  one  of  these  days  and  he  would  look  her  up.  He 
still  loved  her,  but  it  was  necessary  for  him  to  leave — to  come 
where  the  greatest  possibilities  were.  "I  remember  how  sweet 
you  were  when  I  first  saw  you,"  he  added.  "I  shall  never  for- 
get my  first  impressions,  little  Ruby." 

It  was  cruel  to  add  this  touch  of  remembrance,  but  the  artist 
in  him  could  not  refrain.  It  cut  Ruby  as  a  double  edged  sword, 
for  she  understood  that  he  cared  well  enough  that  way — aesthet- 
ically. It  was  not  her  but  beauty  that  he  loved,  and  her  par- 
ticular beauty  had  lost  its  appeal. 

She  wrote  after  a  time,  intending  to  be  defiant,  indifferent, 
but  she  really  could  not  be.  She  tried  to  think  of  something  sharp 
to  say,  but  finally  put  down  the  simple  truth. 

"Dear  Eugene:"  she  wrote,  "I  got  your  note  several  weeks  ago,  but 
I  could  not  bring  myself  to  answer  it  before  this.  I  know  everything 
is  over  between  us  and  that  is  all  right,  for  I  suppose  it  has  to  be. 
You  couldn't  love  any  woman  long,  I  think.  I  know  what  you  say 
about  your  having  to  go  to  New  York  to  broaden  your  field  is  true. 
You  ought  to,  but  I'm  sorry  you  didn't  come  out.  You  might  have. 
Still  I  don't  blame  you,  Eugene.  It  isn't  much  different  from  what 
has  been  going  on  for  some  time.  I  have  cared  but  I'll  get  over  that,  I 
know,  and  I  won't  ever  think  hard  of  you.  Won't  you  return  me  the 
notes  I  have  sent  you  from  time  to  time  and  my  pictures?  You  won't 
want  them  now. 

"RUBY." 

There  was  a  little  blank  space  on  the  paper  and  then : — 

"I  stood  by  the  window  last  night  and  looked  out  on  the  street.  The 
moon  was  shining  and  those  dead  trees  were  waving  in  the  wind.  I 
saw  the  moon  on  that  pool  of  water  over  in  the  field.  It  looked  like 
silver.  Oh,  Eugene,  I  wish  I  were  dead." 

He  jumped  up  as  he  read  these  words  and  clenched  the  letter 
in  his  hands.  The  pathos  of  it  all  cut  him  to  the  quick,  raised  his 
estimate  of  her,  made  him  feel  as  if  he  had  made  a  mistake  in 
leaving  her.  He  really  cared  for  her  after  all.  She  was  sweet. 
If  she  were  here  now  he  could  live  with  her.  She  might  as  well 
be  a  model  in  New  York  as  in  Chicago.  He  wTas  on  the  verge 
of  writing  this,  when  one  of  the  long,  almost  daily  epistles 
Angela  was  sending  arrived  and  changed  his  mood.  He  did  not 
see  how,  in  the  face  of  so  great  and  clean  a  love  as  hers,  he  could 
go  on  with  Ruby.  His  affection  had  obviously  been  dying. 
Should  he  try  to  revive  it  now? 


THE    "GENIUS'  105 

This  conflict  of  emotions  was  so  characteristic  of  Eugene's 
nature,  that  had  he  been  soundly  introspective,  he  would  have 
seen  that  he  was  an  idealist  by  temperament,  in  love  with  the 
aesthetic,  in  love  with  love,  and  that  there  was  no  permanent 
faith  in  him  for  anybody — except  the  impossible  she. 

As  it  was,  he  wrote  Ruby  a  letter  breathing  regret  and  sor- 
row but  not  inviting  her  to  come.  He  could  not  have  sup- 
ported her  long  if  she  had,  he  thought.  Besides  he  was  anxious 
to  secure  Angela.  So  that  affair  lapsed. 

In  the  meantime  he  visited  the  magazine  offices.  On  leaving 
Chicago  he  had  put  in  the  bottom  of  his  trunk  a  number  of  draw- 
ings which  he  had  done  for  the  Globe — his  sketches  of  the  Chi- 
cago River,  of  Blue  Island  Avenue,  of  which  he  had  once  made 
a  study  as  a  street,  of  Goose  Island  and  of  the  Lake  front. 
There  were  some  street  scenes,  too,  all  forceful  in  the  peculiar 
massing  of  their  blacks,  the  unexpected,  almost  flashing,  use  of  a 
streak  of  white  at  times.  There  was  emotion  in  them,  a  sense 
of  life.  He  should  have  been  appreciated  at  once,  but,  oddly, 
there  was  just  enough  of  the  radically  strange  about  what  he  did 
to  make  his  work  seem  crude,  almost  coarse.  He  drew  a  man's 
coat  with  a  single  dash  of  his  pen.  He  indicated  a  face  by  a 
spot.  If  you  looked  close  there  was  seldom  any  detail,  fre- 
quently none  at  all.  From  the  praise  he  had  received  at  the  art 
school  and  from  Mathews  and  Goldfarb  he  was  slowly  coming  to 
the  conclusion  that  he  had  a  way  of  his  own.  Being  so  individual 
he  was  inclined  to  stick  to  it.  He  walked  with  an  air  of  con- 
viction which  had  nothing  but  his  own  belief  in  himself  to  back 
it  up,  and  it  was  not  an  air  which  drew  anybody  to  him.  When 
he  showed  his  pictures  at  the  Century,  Harper's,  Scribners, 
they  were  received  with  an  air  of  weary  consideration. 
Dozens  of  magnificent  drawings  were  displayed  on  their  walls 
signed  by  men  whom  Eugene  now  knew  to  be  leaders  in  the 
illustration  world.  He  returned  to  his  room  convinced  that  he 
had  made  no  impression  at  all.  They  must  be  familiar  with  ar- 
tists a  hundred  times  better  than  himself. 

As  a  matter  of  fact  Eugene  was  simply  overawed  by  the  ma- 
terial face  of  things.  These  men  whose  pictures  he  saw  displayed 
on  the  walls  of  the  art  and  editorial  rooms  of  the  magazines 
were  really  not,  in  many  instances,  any  better  than  himself,  if  as 
good.  They  had  the  advantage  of  solid  wood  frames  and  artistic 
acceptance.  He  was  a  long  way  as  yet  from  magazine  distinction 
but  the  work  he  did  later  had  no  more  of  the  fire  than  had  this 
early  stuff.  It  was  a  little  broader  in  treatment,  a  little  less  in- 
tolerant of  detail,  but  no  more  vigorous  if  as  much  so.  The 


io6  THE    "GENIUS'1 

various  art  directors  were  weary  of  smart  young  artists  showing 
drawings.  A  little  suffering  was  good  for  them  in  the  begin- 
ning. So  Eugene  was  incontinently  turned  away  with  a  little 
faint  praise  which  was  worse  than  opposition.  He  sank  very 
low  in  spirits. 

There  were  still  the  smaller  magazines  and  the  newspapers, 
however,  and  he  hunted  about  faithfully,  trying  to  get  some- 
thing to  do.  From  one  or  two  of  the  smaller  magazines,  he 
secured  commissions,  after  a  time,  three  or  four  drawings  for 
thirty-five  dollars;  and  from  that  had  to  be  extracted  models' 
fees.  He  had  to  have  a  room  vhere  he  could  work  as  an  artist, 
receiving  models  to  pose,  and  he  finally  found  one  in  West  I4th 
Street,  a  back  bedroom,  looking  out  over  an  open  court  and  writh 
a  public  stair  which  let  all  come  who  might  without  question. 
This  cost  him  twenty-five  dollars  a  month,  but  he  thought  he 
had  better  risk  it.  If  he  could  get  a  few  commissions  he  could 
live. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

THE  art  world  of  New  York  is  peculiar.  It  was  then  and 
for  some  time  after,  broken  up  into  cliques  with  scarcely 
any  unity.  There  was  a  world  of  sculptors,  for  instance,  in 
which  some  thirty  or  forty  sculptors  had  part — but  they  knew 
each  other  slightly,  criticised  each  other  severely  and  retired  for 
the  most  part  into  a  background  of  relatives  and  friends.  There 
was  a  painting  world,  as  distinguished  from  an  illustrating 
world,  in  which  perhaps  a  thousand  alleged  artists,  perhaps  more, 
took  part.  Most  of  these  were  men  and  women  who  had  some 
ability — enough  to  have  their  pictures  hung  at  the  National 
Academy  of  Design  exhibition — to  sell  some  pictures,  get  some 
decorative  work  to  do,  paint  some  portraits.  There  were  studio 
buildings  scattered  about  various  portions  of  the  city;  in  Wash- 
ington Square;  in  Ninth  and  Tenth  Streets;  in  odd  places,  such 
as  Macdougal  Alley  and  occasional  cross  streets  from  Washing- 
ton Square  to  Fifty-ninth  Street,  which  were  filled  with  painters, 
illustrators,  sculptors  and  craftsmen  in  art  generally.  This  paint- 
ing world  had  more  unity  than  the  world  of  sculptors  and,  in  a 
way,  included  the  latter.  There  were  several  art  clubs — the 
Salmagundi,  the  Kit-Kat  and  the  Lotus — and  there  were  a  num- 
ber of  exhibitions,  ink,  water  color,  oil,  with  their  reception 
nights  where  artists  could  meet  and  exchange  the  courtesies  and 
friendship  of  their  world.  In  addition  to  this  there  were  little 
communal  groups  such  as  those  who  resided  in  the  Tenth  Street 
studios;  the  Twenty-third  Street  Y.  M.  C.  A.;  the  Van  Dyck 
studios,  and  so  on.  It  was  possible  to  find  little  crowds,  now  and 
then,  that  harmonized  well  enough  for  a  time  and  to  get  into  a 
group,  if,  to  use  a  colloquialism,  one  belonged.  If  you  did  not, 
art  life  in  New  York  might  be  a  very  dreary  thing  and  one 
might  go  a  long  time  without  finding  just  the  particular  crowd 
with  which  to  associate. 

Beside  the  painting  world  there  was  the  illustrating  world, 
made  up  of  beginners  and  those  who  had  established  themselves 
firmly  in  editorial  favor.  These  were  not  necessarily  a  part  of 
the  painting  or  sculpture  worlds  and  yet,  in  spirit,  were  allied 
to  them,  had  their  clubs  also,  and  their  studios  were  in  the  va- 
rious neighborhoods  where  the  painters  and  sculptors  were.  The 
only  difference  was  that  in  the  case  of  the  embryo  illustrators 
they  were  to  be  found  living  three  or  four  in  one  studio,  partly 

107 


io8  THE   "GENIUS" 

because  of  the  saving  in  expense,  but  also  because  of  the  love  of 
companionship  and  because  they  could  hearten  and  correct  one 
another  in  their  work.  A  number  of  such  interesting  groups 
were  in  existence  when  Eugene  arrived,  but  of  course  he  did 
not  know  of  them. 

It  takes  time  for  the  beginner  to  get  a  hearing  anywhere.  We 
all  have  to  serve  an  apprenticeship,  whatever  field  we  enter. 
Eugene  had  talent  and  determination,  but  no  experience,  no 
savoir  faire,  no  circle  of  friends  and  acquaintances.  The  whole 
city  was  strange  and  cold,  and  if  he  had  not  immediately  fallen 
desperately  in  love  with  it  as  a  spectacle  he  would  have  been 
unconscionably  lonely  and  unhappy.  As  it  was  the  great  fresh 
squares,  such  as  Washington,  Union  and  Madison;  the  great 
streets,  such  as  Broadway,  Fifth  Avenue  and  Sixth  Avenue;  the 
great  spectacles,  such  as  the  Bowery  at  night,  the  East  River, 
the  water  front,  the  Battery,  all  fascinated  him  with  an  un- 
changing glamor. 

He  was  hypnotized  by  the  wonder  of  this  thing — the  beauty  of 
it.  Such  seething  masses  of  people!  such  whirlpools  of  life!  The 
great  hotels,  the  opera,  the  theatres,  the  restaurants,  all  gripped 
him  with  a  sense  of  beauty.  These  lovely  women  in  magnificent 
gowns;  these  swarms  of  cabs,  with  golden  eyes,  like  monstrous 
insects;  this  ebb  and  surge  of  life  at  morning  and  evening,  made 
him  forget  his  loneliness.  He  had  no  money  to  spend,  no  im- 
mediate hope  of  a  successful  career,  he  could  walk  these  streets, 
look  in  these  windows,  admire  these  beautiful  women;  thrill  at 
the  daily  newspaper  announcements  of  almost  hourly  successes  in 
one  field  or  another.  Here  and  there  in  the  news  an  author 
had  made  a  great  success  with  a  book;  a  scientist  with  a  dis- 
covery; a  philosopher  with  a  new  theory;  a  financier  with  an  in- 
vestment. There  was  news  of  great  plays  being  put  on;  great 
actors  and  actresses  coming  from  abroad;  great  successes  being 
made  by  debutantes  in  society;  great  movements  forwarded  gen- 
erally. Youth  and  ambition  had  the  call — he  saw  that.  It  was 
only  a  question  of  time,  if  you  had  talent,  when  you  would 
get  your  hearing.  He  longed  ardently  for  his  but  he  had  no 
feeling  that  it  was  coming  to  him  quickly,  so  he  got  the  blues. 
It  was  a  long  road  to  travel. 

One  of  his  pet  diversions  these  days  and  nights  was  to  walk 
the  streets  in  rain  or  fog  or  snow.  The  city  appealed  to  him,  wet 
or  white,  particularly  the  public  squares.  He  saw  Fifth  Avenue 
once  in  a  driving  snowstorm  and  under  sputtering  arc  lights,  and 
he  hurried  to  his  easel  next  morning  to  see  if  he  could  not  put 
it  down  in  black  and  white.  It  was  unsuccessful,  or  at  least 


THE    "  GENIUS'  109 

he  felt  so,  for  after  an  hour  of  trying  he  threw  it  aside  in  disgust. 
But  these  spectacles  were  drawing  him.  He  was  wanting  to 
do  them — wanting  to  see  them  shown  somewrhere  in  color.  Pos- 
sible success  was  a  solace  at  a  time  when  all  he  could  pay  for  a 
meal  was  fifteen  cents  and  he  had  no  place  to  go  and  not  a  soul 
with  whom  to  talk. 

It  was  an  interesting  phase  of  Eugene's  character  that  he 
had  a  passion  for  financial  independence.  He  might  have  written 
home  from  Chicago  at  times  when  he  was  hard  pressed;  he 
might  have  borrowed  some  money  from  his  father  now,  but  pre- 
ferred to  earn  it — to  appear  to  be  further  along  than  he  was. 
If  anyone  had  asked  him  he  would  have  said  he  was  doing  fine. 
Practically  he  so  wrote  to  Angela,  giving  as  an  excuse  for  fur- 
ther delay  that  he  wanted  to  wait  until  he  had  ample  means. 
He  was  trying  all  this  time  to  make  his  two  hundred  dollars  go 
as  far  as  possible  and  to  add  to  it  by  any  little  commissions  he 
could  get,  however  small.  He  figured  his  expenses  down  to 
ten  dollars  a  week  and  managed  to  stay  within  that  sum. 

The  particular  building  in  which  he  had  settled  was  really  not 
a  studio  building  but  an  old,  run-down  boarding  and  apartment 
house  turned  partially  to  uses  of  trade.  The  top  floor  contained 
three  fair  sized  rooms  and  two  hall  bedrooms,  all  occupied  by 
lonely  individuals  plying  some  craft  or  other.  Eugene's  next 
door  neighbor  chanced  to  be  a  hack  illustrator,  who  had  had  his 
training  in  Boston  and  had  set  up  his  easel  here  in  the  hope  of 
making  a  living.  There  were  not  many  exchanges  of  courtesies 
between  them  at  first,  although,  the  door  being  open  the  second 
day  he  arrived,  he  saw  that  an  artist  worked  there,  for  the  easel 
was  visible. 

No  models  applying  at  first  he  decided  to  appeal  to  the  Art 
Students'  League.  He  called  on  the  Secretary  and  was  given 
the  names  of  four,  who  replied  to  postal  cards  from  him.  One 
he  selected,  a  young  Swedish  American  girl  who  looked  somewhat 
like  the  character  in  the  story  he  had  in  mind.  She  was  neat 
and  attractive,  with  dark  hair,  a  straight  nose  and  pointed  chin, 
and  Eugene  immediately  conceived  a  liking  for  her.  He  was 
ashamed  of  his  surroundings,  however,  and  consequently  diffi- 
dent. This  particular  model  was  properly  distant,  and  he  finished 
his  pictures  with  as  much  expedition  and  as  little  expense  as  he 
possibly  could. 

Eugene  was  not  given  to  scraping  odd  acquaintances,  though 
he  made  friends  fast  enough  when  the  balance  of  intellect  was 
right.  In  Chicago  he  had  become  friendly  with  several  young 
artists  as  a  result  of  working  with  them  at  the  Institute,  but  here 


no  THE    "GENIUS' 

he  knew  no  one,  having  come  without  introductions.  He  did 
become  acquainted  with  his  neighbor,  Philip  Shotmeyer.  He 
wanted  to  find  out  about  local  art  life  from  him,  but  Shot- 
meyer was  not  brilliant,  and  could  not  supply  him  with  more 
than  minor  details  of  what  Eugene  desired  to  know.  Through 
him  he  learnt  a  little  of  studio  regions,  art  personalities;  the 
fact  that  young  beginners  worked  in  groups.  Shotmeyer  had 
been  in  such  a  group  the  year  before,  though  why  he  was  alone 
now  he  did  not  say.  He  sold  drawings  to  some  of  the  minor 
magazines,  better  magazines  than  Eugene  had  yet  had  dealings 
with.  One  thing  he  did  at  once  for  Eugene  which  was  very 
helpful:  he  admired  his  work.  He  saw,  as  had  others  before 
him,  something  of  his  peculiar  distinction  as  an  artist,  attended 
every  show  and  one  day  he  gave  him  a  suggestion  which  was 
the  beginning  of  Eugene's  successful  magazine  career.  Eugene 
was  working  on  one  of  his  street  scenes — a  task  which  he  in- 
variably essayed  when  he  had  nothing  else  to  do.  Shotmeyer 
had  drifted  in  and  was  following  the  strokes  of  his  brush  as  he 
attempted  to  portray  a  mass  of  East  Side  working  girls  flood- 
ing the  streets  after  six  o'clock.  There  were  dark  walls  of 
buildings,  a  flaring  gas  lamp  or  two,  some  yellow  lighted  shop 
windows,  and  many  shaded,  half  seen  faces — bare  suggestions 
of  souls  and  pulsing  life. 

"Say,"  said  Shotmeyer  at  one  point,  "that  kind  o'  looks  like 
the  real  thing  to  me.  I've  seen  a  crowd  like  that." 

"Have  you?"  replied  Eugene. 

"You  ought  to  be  able  to  get  some  magazine  to  use  that  as  a 
frontispiece.  Why  don't  you  try  Truth  with  that?" 

"Truth"  was  a  weekly  which  Eugene,  along  with  many  oth- 
ers in  the  West,  had  admired  greatly  because  it  ran  a  double 
page  color  insert  every  week  and  occasionally  used  scenes  of 
this  character.  Somehow  he  always  needed  a  shove  of  this  kind 
to  make  him  act  when  he  was  drifting.  He  put  more  enthusiasm 
into  his  work  because  of  Shotmeyer's  remark,  and  when  it 
was  done  decided  to  carry  it  to  the  office  of  Truth.  The  Art 
Director  approved  it  on  sight,  though  he  said  nothing,  but  car- 
ried it  in  to  the  Editor. 

"Here's  a  thing  that  I  consider  a  find  in  its  way." 

He  set  it  proudly  upon  the  editorial  desk. 

"Say,"  said  the  Editor,  laying  down  a  manuscript,  "that's 
the  real  thing,  isn't  it?  Who  did  that?" 

"A  young  fellow  by  the  name  of  Witla,  who  has  just  blown 
in  here.  He  looks  like  the  real  thing  to  me." 

"Say,"  went  on  the  Editor,  "look  at  the  suggestion  of  faces 


THE    "GENIUS'  in 

% 

back  there!  What?  Reminds  me  just  a  little  of  the  masses 
in  Dore  stuff — It's  good,  isn't  it?" 

"It's  fine,"  echoed  the  Art  Director.  "I  think  he's  a  comer, 
if  nothing  happens  to  him.  We  ought  to  get  a  few  centre  pages 
out  of  him." 

"How  much  does  he  want  for  this?" 

"Oh,  he  doesn't  know.  He'll  take  almost  anything.  I'll  give 
him  seventy-five  dollars." 

"That's  all  right,"  said  the  Editor  as  the  Art  Director  took 
the  drawing  down.  "There's  something  new  there.  You  ought 
to  hang  on  to  him." 

"I  will,"  replied  his  associate.  "He's  young  yet.  He  doesn't 
want  to  be  encouraged  too  much." 

He  went  out,  pulling  a  solemn  countenance. 

"I  like  this  fairly  well,"  he  said.  "We  may  be  able  to  find 
room  for  it.  I'll  send  you  a  check  shortly  if  you'll  let  me  have 
your  address." 

Eugene  gave  it.  His  heart  was  beating  a  gay  tattoo  in  his 
chest.  He  did  not  think  anything  of  price,  in  fact  it  did  not  occur 
to  him.  All  that  was  in  his  mind  was  the  picture  as  a  double 
page  spread.  So  he  had  really  sold  one  after  all  and  to  Truth! 
Now  he  could  honestly  say  he  had  made  some  progress.  Now 
he  could  write  Angela  and  tell  her.  He  could  send  her  copies 
when  it  came  out.  He  could  really  have  something  to  point  to 
after  this  and  best  of  all,  now  he  knew  he  could  do  street  scenes. 

He  wrent  out  into  the  street  treading  not  the  grey  stone  pave- 
ment but  air.  He  threw  back  his  head  and  breathed  deep.  He 
thought  of  other  scenes  like  this  which  he  could  do.  His  dreams 
were  beginning  to  be  realized — he,  Eugene  Witla,  the  painter 
of  a  double  page  spread  in  Truth!  Already  he  was  doing  a 
whole  series  in  his  imagination,  all  he  had  ever  dreamed  of.  He 
wanted  to  run  and  tell  Shotmeyer — to  buy  him  a  good  meal. 
He  almost  loved  him,  commonplace  hack  that  he  was — because 
he  had  suggested  to  him  the  right  thing  to  do. 

"Say,  Shotmeyer,"  he  said,  sticking  his  head  in  that  worthy's 
door,  "you  and  I  eat  tonight.  Truth  took  that  drawing." 

"Isn't  that  fine,"  said  his  floor-mate,  without  a  trace  of  envy. 
"'Well,  I'm  glad.  I  thought  they'd  like  it." 

Eugene  could  have  cried.  Poor  Shotmeyer!  He  wasn't  a 
good  artist,  but  he  had  a  good  heart.  He  would  never  forget 
him. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

THIS  one  significant  sale  with  its  subsequent  check  of  seventy- 
five  dollars  and  later  the  appearance  of  the  picture  in 
color,  gave  Eugene  such  a  lift  in  spirit  that  he  felt,  for  the  time 
being,  as  though  his  art  career  had  reached  a  substantial  basis, 
and  he  began  to  think  of  going  to  Blackwood  to  visit  Angela. 
But  first  he  must  do  some  more  work. 

He  concentrated  his  attention  on  several  additional  scenes,  do- 
ing a  view  of  Greeley  Square  in  a  sopping  drizzle,  and  a  picture  of 
an  L  train  speeding  up  the  Bowery  on  its  high,  thin  trestle  of 
steel.  He  had  an  eye  for  contrasts,  picking  out  lights  and  shad- 
ows sharply,  making  wonderful  blurs  that  were  like  colors  in 
precious  stones,  confused  and  suggestive.  He  took  one  of  these 
after  a  month  to  Truth,  and  again  the  Art  Director  was  his 
victim.  He  tried  to  be  indifferent,  but  it  was  hard.  The  young 
man  had  something  that  he  wanted. 

"You  might  show  me  anything  else  you  do  in  this  line,"  he 
said.  "I  can  use  a  few  if  they  come  up  to  these  two." 

Eugene  went  away  with  his  head  in  the  air.  He  was  begin- 
ning to  get  the  courage  of  his  ability. 

It  takes  quite  a  number  of  drawings  at  seventy-five  and  one 
hundred  dollars  each  to  make  a  living  income,  and  artists  were 
too  numerous  to  make  anyone's  opportunity  for  immediate  dis- 
tinction easy.  Eugene  waited  months  to  see  his  first  drawing 
come  out.  He  stayed  away  from  the  smaller  magazines  in  the 
hope  that  he  would  soon  be  able  to  contribute  to  the  larger  ones, 
but  they  were  not  eagerly  seeking  new  artists.  He  met,  through 
Shotmeyer,  two  artists  who  were  living  in  one  studio  in  Wav- 
erly  Place  and  took  a  great  liking  to  them.  One  of  them, 
McHugh,  was  an  importation  from  Wyoming  with  delicious 
stories  of  mountain  farming  and  mining;  the  other,  Smite,  was  a 
fisher  lad  from  Nova  Scotia.  McHugh,  tall  and  lean,  with  a 
face  that  looked  like  that  of  a  raw  yokel,  but  with  some  gleam 
of  humor  and  insight  in  the  eyes  which  redeemed  it  instantly, 
was  Eugene's  first  choice  of  a  pleasing,  genial  personality.  Joseph 
Smite  had  a  sense  of  the  sea  about  him.  He  was  short  and 
stout,  and  rather  solidly  put  together,  like  a  blacksmith.  He  had 
big  hands  and  feet,  a  big  mouth,  big,  bony  eye  sockets  and 
coarse  brown  hair.  When  he  talked,  ordinarily,  it  was  with  a 
slow,  halting  air  and  when  he  smiled  or  laughed  it  was  with 

112 


THE    "GENIUS'5  113 

his  whole  face.  When  he  became  excited  or  gay  something 
seemed  to  happen  distinctly  to  every  part  of  his  body.  His  face 
became  a  curious  cross-hatch  of  genial  lines.  His  tongue  loosened 
and  he  talked  fast.  He  had  a  habit  of  emphasizing  his  lan- 
guage with  oaths  on  these  occasions — numerous  and  picturesque, 
for  he  had  worked  with  sea-faring  men  and  had  accumulated 
a  vast  vocabulary  of  picturesque  expressions.  They  were  va- 
cant of  evil  intent  so  far  as  he  was  concerned,  for  there  was 
no  subtlety  or  guile  in  him.  He  was  kindly  and  genial  all 
through.  Eugene  wanted  to  be  friendly  and  struck  a  gay  re- 
lationship with  these  two.  He  found  that  he  got  along  excel- 
lently well  with  them  and  could  swap  humorous  incidents  and 
character  touches  by  the  hour.  It  was  some  months  before  he 
could  actually  say  that  he  was  intimate  with  them,  but  he  began 
to  visit  them  regularly  and  after  a  time  they  called  on  him. 

It  was  during  this  year  that  he  came  to  know  several  models 
passingly  well,  to  visit  the  various  art  exhibitions,  to  be  taken 
up  by  Hudson  Dula,  the  Art  Director  of  Truth  and  invited 
to  two  or  three  small  dinners  given  to  artists  and  girls.  He  did 
not  find  anyone  he  liked  exceptionally  well  barring  one  Editor 
of  a  rather  hopeless  magazine  called  Craft,  devoted  to  art 
subjects,  a  young  blond,  of  poetic  temperament,  who  saw  in  him 
a  spirit  of  beauty  and  tried  to  make  friends  with  him.  Eugene 
responded  cheerfully  and  thereafter  Richard  Wheeler  was  a 
visitor  at  his  studio  from  time  to  time.  He  was  not  making 
enough  to  house  himself  much  better  these  days,  but  he  did  man- 
age to  buy  a  few  plaster  casts  and  to  pick  up  a  few  nice  things 
in  copper  and  brass  for  his  studio.  His  own  drawings,  his 
street  scenes,  were  hung  here  and  there.  The  way  in  which 
the  exceptionally  clever  looked  at  them  convinced  him  by  de- 
gree* that  he  had  something  big  to  say. 

It  was  while  he  was  settling  himself  in  this  atmosphere — the 
spring  of  the  second  year — that  he  decided  to  go  back  and  visit 
Angela  and  incidentally  Alexandria  and  Chicago.  He  had  been 
away  now  sixteen  months,  had  not  seen  anyone  who  had  won  his 
affections  or  alienated  him  from  his  love  of  Angela.  He  wrote 
in  March  that  he  thought  he  would  be  coming  in  May  or  June. 
He  did  get  away  in  July — a  season  when  the  city  was  suffering 
from  a  wave  of  intense  heat.  He  had  not  done  so  much — illus- 
trated eight  or  ten  stories  and  drawn  four  double  page  pictures 
for  Truth,  one  of  which  had  appeared;  but  he  was  getting 
along.  Just  as  he  was  starting  for  Chicago  and  Blackwood  a 
second  one  was  put  on  the  news-stand  and  he  proudly  carried  a 
copy  of  it  with  him  on  the  train.  It  was  the  Bowery  by  night, 


ii4  THE    "GENIUS" 

with  the  L  train  rushing  overhead  and,  as  reproduced,  it  had 
color  and  life.  He  felt  intensely  proud  and  knew  that  Angela 
would  also.  She  had  written  him  such  a  glowing  appreciation 
of  the  East  Side  picture  called  "Six  O'clock." 

As  he  rode  he  dreamed. 

He  reached  it  at  last,  the  long  stretch  between  New  York 
and  Chicago  traversed;  he  arrived  in  the  Lake  city  in  the  after- 
noon, and  without  pausing  to  revisit  the  scenes  of  his  earlier  ef- 
forts took  a  five  o'clock  train  for  Blackwood.  It  was  sultry,  and 
on  the  way  heavy  thunder  clouds  gathered  and  broke  in  a  short, 
splendid  summer  rain.  The  trees  and  grass  were  thoroughly 
wet  and  the  dust  of  the  roads  was  laid.  There  was  a  refreshing 
coolness  about  the  air  which  caressed  the  weary  flesh.  Little 
towns  nestling  among  green  trees  came  into  view  and  passed 
again,  and  at  last  Blackwood  appeared.  It  was  smaller  than 
Alexandria,  but  not  so  different.  Like  the  other  it  was  marked 
by  a  church  steeple,  a  saw  mill,  a  pretty  brick  business  street 
and  many  broad  branching  green  trees.  Eugene  felt  drawn  to  it 
at  sight.  It  was  such  a  place  as  Angela  should  live  in. 

It  was  seven  o'clock  and  nearing  dusk  when  he  arrived.  He 
had  not  given  Angela  the  definite  hour  of  his  arrival  and  so  de- 
cided to  stay  over  night  at  the  little  inn  or  so-called  hotel  which 
he  saw  up  the  street.  He  had  brought  only  a  large  suit  case 
and  a  traveling  bag.  He  inquired  of  the  proprietor  the  direction 
and  distance  of  the  Blue  house  from  the  town,  found  that  he 
could  get  a  vehicle  any  time  in  the  morning  which  would  take 
him  over,  as  the  phrase  ran,  for  a  dollar.  He  ate  his  supper 
of  fried  steak  and  poor  coffee  and  fried  potatoes  and  then  sat 
out  on  the  front  porch  facing  the  street  in  a  rocking  chair,  to 
see  how  the  village  of  Biackwood  wagged  and  to  enjoy  the  cool 
of  the  evening.  As  he  sat  he  thought  of  Angela's  home  and 
how  nice  it  must  be.  This  town  was  such  a  little  place — so  quiet. 
There  would  not  be  another  train  coming  up  from  the  city  until 
after  eleven. 

After  a  time  he  rose  and  took  a  short  walk,  breathing  the 
night  air.  Later  he  came  back  and  throwing  wide  the  windows 
of  the  stuffy  room  sat  looking  out.  The  summer  night  with 
its  early  rain,  its  wet  trees,  its  smell  of  lush,  wet,  growing 
things,  was  impressing  itself  on  Eugene  as  one  might  impress 
wet  clay  with  a  notable  design.  Eugene's  mood  was  soft 
toward  the  little  houses  with  their  glowing  windows,  the  occa- 
sional pedestrians  with  their  "howdy  Jakes"  and  "evenin' 
Henrys."  He  was  touched  by  the  noise  of  the  crickets,  the  chirp 
of  the  tree  toads,  the  hang  of  the  lucent  suns  and  planets 


THE    "GENIUS"  115 

above  the  tree  tops.  The  whole  night  was  quick  with  the  rich- 
ness of  fertility,  stirring  subtly  about  some  work  which  con- 
cerned man  very  little  or  not  at  all,  yet  of  which  he  was  at 
least  a  part,  till  his  eyelids  drooped  after  a  time  and  he  went 
to  bed  to  sleep  deeply  and  dreamlessly. 

Next  morning  he  was  up  early,  eager  for  the  hour  to  arrive 
when  he  might  start.  He  did  not  think  it  advisable  to  leave 
before  nine  o'clock,  and  attracted  considerable  attention  by 
strolling  about,  his  tall,  spare,  graceful  figure  and  forceful 
profile  being  an  unusual  sight  to  the  natives.  At  nine  o'clock 
a  respectable  carryall  was  placed  at  his  disposal  and  he  was 
driven  out  over  a  long  yellow  road,  damp  with  the  rain  of  the 
night  before  and  shaded  in  places  by  overhanging  trees.  There 
were  so  many  lovely  wild  flowers  growing  in  the  angles  of  the 
rail  fences — wild  yellow  and  pink  roses,  elder  flower,  Queen 
Anne's  lace,  dozens  of  beautiful  blooms,  that  Eugene  was  lost  in 
admiration.  His  heart  sang  over  the  beauty  of  yellowing  wheat- 
fields,  the  young  corn,  already  three  feet  high,  the  vistas  of  hay 
and  clover,  with  patches  of  woods  enclosing  them,  and  over  all, 
house  martens  and  swallows  scudding  after  insects  and  high  up 
in  the  air  his  boyhood  dream  of  beauty,  a  soaring  buzzard. 

As  he  rode  the  moods  of  his  boyhood  days  came  back  to  him — 
his  love  of  winging  butterflies  and  birds;  his  passion  for  the 
voice  of  the  wood-dove  (there  was  one  crying  in  the  still 
distance  now) — his  adoration  for  the  virile  strength  of  the 
men  of  the  countryside.  He  thought  as  he  rode  that  he  would 
like  to  paint  a  series  of  country  scenes  that  would  be  as  simple 
as  those  cottage  dooryards  that  they  now  and  then  passed ;  this 
little  stream  that  cut  the  road  at  right  angles  and  made  a  drinking 
place  for  the  horses;  this  skeleton  of  an  old  abandoned  home, 
doorless  and  windowless,  where  the  roof  sagged  and  hollyhocks 
and  morning  glories  grew  high  under  the  eaves.  "We  city 
dwellers  do  not  know,"  he  sighed,  as  though  he  had  not  taken 
the  country  in  his  heart  and  carried  it  to  town  as  had  every 
other  boy  and  girl  who  had  gone  the  way  of  the  metropolis. 

The  Blue  homestead  was  located  in  the  centre  of  a  rather 
wide  rolling  stretch  of  country  which  lay  between  two  gently 
rising  ridges  of  hill  covered  with  trees.  One  corner  of  the  farm, 
and  that  not  so  very  far  from  the  house,  was  cut  by  a  stream, 
a  little  shallow  thing,  singing  over  pebbles  and  making  willows 
and  hazel  bushes  to  grow  in  profusion  along  its  banks,  and 
there  was  a  little  lake  within  a  mile  of  the  house.  In  front 
of  it  was  a  ten  acre  field  of  wheat,  to  the  right  of  it  a  grazing 
patch  of  several  acres,  to  the  left  a  field  of  clover;  and  near 


ii6  THE    "GENIUS' 

the  house  by  a  barn,  a  well,  a  pig  pen,  a  corn  crib  and  some 
smaller  sheds.  In  front  of  the  house  was  a  long  open  lawn, 
down  the  centre  of  which  ran  a  gravel  path,  lined  on  either 
side  by  tall  old  elm  trees.  The  immediate  dooryard  was  shut 
from  this  noble  lawn  by  a  low  picket  fence  along  the  length  of 
which  grew  lilac  bushes  and  inside  which,  nearer  the  house, 
were  simple  beds  of  roses,  calycanthus  and  golden  glow.  Over 
an  arbor  leading  from  the  backdoor  to  a  rather  distant  summer 
kitchen  flourished  a  grapevine,  and  there  was  a  tall  remnant 
of  a  tree  trunk  covered  completely  with  a  yellow  blooming 
trumpet  vine.  The  dooryard's  lawn  was  smooth  enough,  and 
the  great  lawn  was  a  dream  of  green  grass,  graced  with  the 
shadows  of  a  few  great  trees.  The  house  was  long  and  of 
no  great  depth,  the  front  a  series  of  six  rooms  ranged  in  a  row, 
without  an  upper  storey.  The  two  middle  rooms  which  had 
originally,  perhaps  seventy  years  before,  been  all  there  was  of 
the  house.  Since  then  all  the  other  rooms  had  been  added, 
and  there  was  in  addition  to  these  a  lean-to  containing  a  winter 
kitchen  and  dining  room,  and  to  the  west  of  the  arbor  leading 
to  the  summer  kitchen,  an  old  unpainted  frame  storehouse.  In 
all  its  parts  the  place  was  shabby  and  run  down  but  picturesque 
and  quaint. 

Eugene  was  surprised  to  find  the  place  so  charming.  It 
appealed  to  him,  the  long,  low  front,  with  doors  opening  from  the 
centre  and  end  rooms  direct  upon  the  grass,  with  windows  set 
in  climbing  vines  and  the  lilac  bushes  forming  a  green  wall  be- 
tween the  house  and  the  main  lawn.  The  great  rows  of  elm 
trees  throwing  a  grateful  shade  seemed  like  sentinel  files.  As 
the  carryall  turned  in  at  the  wagon  gate  in  front  he  thought 
"What  a  place  for  love!  and  to  think  Angela  should  live  here." 

The  carryall  rattled  down  the  pebble  road  to  the  left  of 
the  lawn  and  stopped  at  the  garden  gate.  Marietta  came  out. 
Marietta  was  twenty-two  years  old,  and  as  gay  and  joyous  as 
her  elder  sister  Angela  was  sober  and  in  a  way  morbid.  Light 
souled  as  a  kitten,  looking  always  on  the  bright  side  of  things, 
she  made  hosts  of  friends  everywhere  she  went,  having  a  perfect 
swarm  of  lovers  who  wrote  her  eager  notes,  but  whom  she 
rebuffed  with  good  natured,  sympathetic  simplicity.  Here  on 
this  farm  there  was  not  supposed  to  be  so  much  opportunity 
for  social  life  as  in  town,  but  beaux  made  their  way  here  on 
one  pretext  and  another.  Marietta  was  the  magnet,  and  in  the 
world  of  gaiety  which  she  created  Angela  shared. 

Angela  was  now  in  the  dining  room — easy  to  be  called — 
but  Marietta  wanted  to  see  for  herself  what  sort  of  lover  her 


THE    "GENIUS'  117 

sister  had  captured.  She  was  surprised  at  his  height,  his  presence, 
the  keenness  of  his  eyes.  She  hardly  understood  so  fine  a  lover 
for  her  own  sister,  but  held  out  her  hand  smilingly. 

'This  is  Mr.  Witla,  isn't  it?"  she  asked. 

"The  same,"  he  replied,  a  little  pompously.  "Isn't  it  a 
lovely  drive  over  here?" 

"We  think  it  nice  in  nice  weather,"  she  laughed.  "You 
wouldn't  like  it  so  much  in  winter.  Won't  you  come  in  and  put 
your  grip  here  in  the  hall?  David  will  take  it  to  your  room." 

Eugene  obeyed,  but  he  was  thinking  of  Angela  and  when  she 
would  appear  and  how  she  would  look.  He  stepped  into  the 
large,  low  ceiled,  dark,  cool  parlor  and  was  delighted  to  see 
a  piano  and  some  music  piled  on  a  rack.  Through  an  open  win- 
dow he  saw  several  hammocks  out  on  the  main  lawn,  under 
the  trees.  It  seemed  a  wonderful  place  to  him,  the  substance  of 
poetry — and  then  Angela  appeared.  She  was  dressed  in  plain 
white  linen.  Her  hair,  braided  as  he  liked  it  in  a  great  rope, 
lay  as  a  band  across  her  forehead.  She  had  picked  a  big  pink 
rose  and  put  it  in  her  waist.  At  sight  of  her  Eugene  held  out 
his  arms  and  she  flew  to  them.  He  kissed  her  vigorously,  for 
Marietta  had  discreetly  retired  and  they  were  left  alone. 

"So  I  have  you  at  last,"  he  whispered,  and  kissed  her  again. 

"Oh,  yes,  yes,  and  it  has  been  so  long,"  she  sighed. 

"You  couldn't  have  suffered  any  more  than  I  have,"  he  con- 
soled. "Every  minute  has  been  torture,  waiting,  waiting,  wait- 
ing!" 

"Let's  not  think  of  that  now,"  she  urged.  "We  have  each 
other.  You  are  here." 

"Yes,  here  I  am,"  he  laughed,  "all  the  virtues  done  up  in 
one  brown  suit.  Isn't  it  lovely — these  great  trees,  that  beautiful 
lawn?" 

He  paused  from  kissing  to  look  out  of  the  window. 

"I'm  glad  you  like  it,"  she  replied  joyously.  "We  think 
it's  nice,  but  this  place  is  so  old." 

"I  love  it  for  that,"  he  cried  appreciatively.  "Those  bushes 
are  so  nice — those  roses.  Oh,  dear,  you  don't  know  how  sweet 
it  all  seems — and  you — you  are  so  nice." 

He  held  her  off  at  arm's  length  and  surveyed  her  while  she 
blushed  becomingly.  His  eager,  direct,  vigorous  onslaught  con- 
fused her  at  times — caused  her  pulse  to  beat  at  a  high  rate. 

They  went  out  into  the  dooryard  after  a  time  and  then 
Marietta  appeared  again,  and  with  her  Mrs.  Blue,  a  comfortable, 
round  bodied  mother  of  sixty,  who  greeted  Eugene  cordially. 
He  could  feel  in  her  what  he  felt  in  his  own  mother — in  every 


n8  THE    "GENIUS" 

good  mother — love  of  order  and  peace,  love  of  the  well  being  of 
her  children,  love  of  public  respect  and  private  honor  and 
morality.  All  these  things  Eugene  heartily  respected  in  others. 
He  was  glad  to  see  them,  believed  they  had  a  place  in  society,  but 
was  uncertain  whether  they  bore  any  fixed  or  important  rela- 
tionship to  him.  He  was  always  thinking  in  his  private  con- 
science that  life  was  somehow  bigger  and  subtler  and  darker 
than  any  given  theory  or  order  of  living.  It  might  well  be 
worth  while  for  a  man  or  woman  to  be  honest  and  moral 
within  a  given  condition  or  quality  of  society,  but  it  did  not 
matter  at  all  in  the  ultimate  substance  and  composition  of  the 
universe.  Any  form  or  order  of  society  which  hoped  to  endure 
must  have  individuals  like  Mrs.  Blue,  who  would  conform  to 
the  highest  standards  and  theories  of  that  society,  and  when 
found  they  were  admirable,  but  they  meant  nothing  in  the 
shifting,  subtle  forces  of  nature.  They  were  just  accidental 
harmonies  blossoming  out  of  something  which  meant  everything 
here  to  this  order,  nothing  to  the  universe  at  large.  At  twenty- 
two  years  of  age  he  was  thinking  these  things,  wondering  whether 
it  would  be  possible  ever  to  express  them;  wondering  what 
people  would  think  of  him  if  they  actually  knew  what  he  did 
think;  wondering  if  there  was  anything,  anything,  which  was 
really  stable — a  rock  to  cling  to — and  not  mere  shifting  shadow 
and  unreality. 

Mrs.  Blue  looked  at  her  daughter's  young  lover  with  a  kindly 
eye.  She  had  heard  a  great  deal  about  him.  Having  raised  her 
children  to  be  honest,  moral  and  truthful  she  trusted  them  to 
associate  only  with  those  who  were  equally  so.  She  assumed 
that  Eugene  was  such  a  man,  and  his  frank  open  countenance 
and  smiling  eyes  and  mouth  convinced  her  that  he  was  basically 
good.  Also,  what  to  her  were  his  wonderful  drawings,  sent  to 
Angela  in  the  form  of  proofs  from  time  to  time,  particularly 
the  one  of  the  East  Side  crowd,  had  been  enough  to  prejudice  her 
in  his  favor.  No  other  daughter  of  the  family,  and  there  were 
three  married,  had  approximated  to  this  type  of  man  in  her 
choice.  Eugene  was  looked  upon  as  a  prospective  son-in-law  who 
would  fulfill  all  the  conventional  obligations  joyfully  and  as 
a  matter  of  course. 

"It's  very  good  of  you  to  put  me  up,  Mrs.  Blue/'  Eugene 
said  pleasantly.  "I've  always  wanted  to  come  out  here  for  a 
visit — I've  heard  so  much  of  the  family  from  Angela." 

"It's  just  a  country  home  we  have,  not  much  to  look  at,  but 
we  like  it,"  replied  his  hostess.  She  smiled  blandly,  asked  if 
he  wouldn't  make  himself  comfortable  in  one  of  the  hammocks, 


THE'  "GENIUS V  119 

wanted  to  know  how  he  was  getting  along  with  his  work  in 
New  York  and  then  returned  to  her  cooking,  for  she  was  already 
preparing  his  first  meal.  Eugene  strolled  with  Angela  to  the 
big  lawn  under  the  trees  and  sat  down.  He  was  experiencing 
the  loftiest  of  human  emotions  on  earth — love  in  youth,  ac- 
cepted and  requited,  hope  in  youth,  justified  in  action  by  his 
success  in  New  York;  peace  in  youth,  for  he  had  a  well  earned 
holiday  in  his  grasp,  was  resting  with  the  means  to  do  so 
and  with  love  and  beauty  and  admiration  and  joyous  summer 
weather  to  comfort  him. 

As  he  rocked  to  and  fro  in  the  hammock  gazing  at  the  charm- 
ing lawn  and  realizing  all  these  things,  his  glance  rested  at 
last  upon  Angela,  and  he  thought,  "Life  can  really  hold  no 
finer  thing  than  this." 


CHAPTER   XVIII 

TOWARD  noon  old  Jotham  Blue  came  in  from  a  cornfield 
where  he  had  been  turning  the  earth  between  the  rows. 
Although  sixty-five  and  with  snowy  hair  and  beard  he  looked 
to  be  vigorous,  and  good  to  live  until  ninety  or  a  hundred. 
His  eyes  were  blue  and  keen,  his  color  rosy.  He  had  great 
broad  shoulders  set  upon  a  spare  waist,  for  he  had  been  a 
handsome  figure  of  a  man  in  his  youth. 

"How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Witla,"  he  inquired  with  easy  grace 
as  he  strolled  up,  the  yellow  mud  of  the  fields  on  his  boots. 
He  had  pulled  a  big  jackknife  out  of  his  pocket  and  begun 
whittling  a  fine  twig  he  had  picked  up.  "I'm  glad  to  see  you. 
My  daughter,  Angela,  has  been  telling  me  one  thing  and  another 
about  you." 

He  smiled  as  he  looked  at  Eugene.  Angela,  who  was  sitting 
beside  him,  rose  and  strolled  toward  the  house. 

"I'm  glad  to  see  you,"  said  Eugene.  "I  like  your  country 
around  here.  It  looks  prosperous." 

"It  is  prosperous,"  said  the  old  patriarch,  drawing  up  a  chair 
which  stood  at  the  foot  of  a  tree  and  seating  himself.  Eugene 
sank  back  into  the  hammock. 

"It's  a  soil  that's  rich  in  lime  and  carbon  and  sodium — the 
things  which  make  plant  life  grow.  We  need  very  little  fertilizer 
here — very  little.  The  principal  thing  is  to  keep  the  ground 
thoroughly  cultivated  and  to  keep  out  the  bugs  and  weeds." 

He  cut  at  his  stick  meditatively.  Eugene  noted  the  chemical 
and  physical  knowledge  relative  to  farming.  It  pleased  him 
to  find  brain  coupled  with  crop  cultivation. 

"I  noticed  some  splendid  fields  of  wheat  as  I  came  over," 
he  observed. 

"Yes,  wheat  does  well  here,"  Blue  went  on,  "when  the 
weather  is  moderately  favorable.  Corn  does  well.  We  have 
a  splendid  apple  crop  and  grapes  are  generally  successful  in 
this  state.  I  have  always  thought  that  Wisconsin  had  a  little 
the  best  of  the  other  valley  states,  for  we  are  blessed  with  a 
moderate  climate,  plenty  of  streams  and  rivers  and  a  fine, 
broken  landscape.  There  are  good  mines  up  north  and  lots 
of  lumber.  We  are  a  prosperous  people,  we  Wisconsiners,  de- 
cidedly prosperous.  This  state  has  a  great  future." 

Eugene  noted  the  wide  space  between  his  clear  blue  eyes  as 

1 20 


THE    "GENIUS"  121 

he  talked.  He  liked  the  bigness  of  his  conception  of  his  state 
and  of  his  country.  No  petty  little  ground-harnessed  ploughman 
this,  but  a  farmer  in  the  big  sense  of  the  word — a  cultivator  of 
the  soil,  with  an  understanding  of  it — an  American  who  loved 
his  state  and  his  country. 

"I  have  always  thought  of  the  Mississippi  valley  as  the 
country  of  the  future,"  said  Eugene.  "We  have  had  the  Valley 
of  the  Nile  and  the  Valley  of  the  Euphrates  with  big  populations, 
but  this  is  something  larger.  I  rather  feel  as  though  a  great 
wave  of  population  were  coming  here  in  the  future." 

"It  is  the  new  paradise  of  the  world,"  said  Jotham  Blue, 
pausing  in  his  whittling  and  holding  up  his  right  hand  for 
emphasis.  "We  haven't  come  to  realize  its  possibilities.  The 
fruit,  the  corn,  the  wheat,  to  feed  the  nations  of  the  world 
can  be  raised  here.  I  sometimes  marvel  at  the  productivity 
of  the  soil.  It  is  so  generous.  It  is  like  a  great  mother.  It 
only  asks  to  be  treated  kindly  to  give  all  that  it  has." 

Eugene  smiled.  The  bigness  of  his  prospective  father-in- 
law's  feelings  lured  him.  He  felt  as  though  he  could  love  this 
man. 

They  talked  on  about  other  things,  the  character  of  the  sur- 
rounding population,  the  growth  of  Chicago,  the  recent  threat  of 
a  war  with  Venezuela,  the  rise  of  a  new  leader  in  the  Democratic 
party,  a  man  whom  Jotham  admired  very  much.  As  he  was 
telling  of  the  latter's  exploits — it  appeared  he  had  recently  met 
him  at  Blackwood — Mrs.  Blue  appeared  in  the  front  door. 

"Jotham!"  she  called. 

He  rose.  "My  wife  must  want  a  bucket  of  water,"  he  said, 
and  strolled  away. 

Eugene  smiled.  This  was  lovely.  This  was  the  way  life 
should  be — compounded  of  health,  strength,  good  nature,  un- 
derstanding, simplicity.  He  wished  he  were  a  man  like  Jotham, 
as  sound,  as  hearty,  as  clean  and  strong.  To  think  he  had 
raised  eight  children.  No  wonder  Angela  was  lovely.  They 
all  were,  no  doubt. 

While  he  was  rocking,  Marietta  came  back  smiling,  her 
blond  hair  blowing  about  her  face.  Like  her  father  she  had 
blue  eyes,  like  him  a  sanguine  temperament,  warm  and  ruddy. 
Eugene  felt  drawn  to  her.  She  reminded  him  a  little  of 
Ruby — a  little  of  Margaret.  She  was  bursting  with  young 
health. 

"You're  stronger  than  Angela,"  he  said,  looking  at  her. 

"Oh,  yes,  I  can  always  outrun  Angel-face,"  she  exclaimed. 
"We  fight  sometimes  but  I  can  get  things  away  from  her. 


122  THE   "GENIUS" 

She  has  to  give  in.  Sometimes  I  feel  older — I  always  take 
the  lead." 

Eugene  rejoiced  in  the  sobriquet  of  Angel-face.  It  suited 
Angela,  he  thought.  She  looked  like  pictures  of  Angels  in  the 
old  prints  and  in  the  stained  glass  windows  he  had  seen.  He 
wondered  in  a  vague  way,  however,  whether  Marietta  did  not 
have  the  sweeter  temperament — were  not  really  more  lovable 
and  cosy.  But  he  put  the  thought  forcefully  out  of  his  mind. 
He  felt  he  must  be  loyal  to  Angela  here. 

While  they  were  talking  the  youngest  boy,  David,  came  up 
and  sat  down  on  the  grass.  He  was  short  and  stocky  for  his 
years — sixteen — with  an  intelligent  face  and  an  inquiring  eye. 
Eugene  noted  stability  and  quiet  force  in  his  character  at  once. 
He  began  to  see  that  these  children  had  inherited  character  as 
well  as  strength  from  their  parents.  This  was  a  home  in  which 
successful  children  were  being  reared.  Benjamin  came  up  after 
awhile,  a  tall,  overgrown,  puritanical  youth,  with  western  modi- 
fications and  then  Samuel,  the  oldest  of  the  living  boys  and  the 
most  impressive.  He  was  big  and  serene  like  his  father,  of 
brown  complexion  and  hickory  strength.  Eugene  learned  in  the 
conversation  that  he  was  a  railroad  man  in  St.  Paul — home  for 
a  brief  vacation,  after  three  years  of  absence.  He  was  with 
a  road  called  the  Great  Northern,  already  a  Second  Assistant 
Passenger  Agent  and  with  great  prospects,  so  the  family  thought. 
Eugene  could  see  that  all  the  boys  and  girls,  like  Angela,  were 
ruggedly  and  honestly  truthful.  They  were  written  all  over  with 
Christian  precept — not  church  dogma — but  Christian  precept, 
lightly  and  good  naturedly  applied.  They  obeyed  the  ten  com- 
mandments in  so  far  as  possible  and  lived  within  the  limits 
of  what  people  considered  sane  and  decent.  Eugene  wondered 
at  this.  His  own  moral  laxity  was  a  puzzle  to  him.  He 
wondered  whether  he  were  not  really  all  wrong  and  they  all 
right.  Yet  the  subtlety  of  the  universe  was  always  with  him — 
the  mystery  of  its  chemistry.  For  a  given  order  of  society  no 
doubt  he  was  out  of  place — for  life  in  general,  well,  he  could 
not  say. 

At  12.30  dinner  was  announced  from  the  door  by  Mrs. 
Blue  and  they  all  rose.  It  was  one  of  those  simple  home  feasts 
common  to  any  intelligent  farming  family.  There  was  a  gener- 
ous supply  of  fresh  vegetables,  green  peas,  new  potatoes,  new 
string  beans.  A  steak  had  been  secured  from  the  itinerant  butcher 
who  served  these  parts  and  Mrs.  Blue  had  made  hot  light  biscuit. 
Eugene  expressed  a  predilection  for  fresh  buttermilk  and  they 
brought  him  a  pitcherful,  saying  that  as  a  rule  it  was  given  to 


THE   "GENIUS'  123 

the  pigs;  the  children  did  not  care  for  it.  They  talked  and 
jested  and  he  heard  odd  bits  of  information  concerning  people 
here  and  there — some  farmer  who  had  lost  a  horse  by  colic; 
some  other  farmer  who  was  preparing  to  cut  his  wheat.  There 
were  frequent  references  to  the  three  oldest  sisters,  who  lived  in 
other  Wisconsin  towns.  Their  children  appeared  to  be  numer- 
ous and  fairly  troublesome.  They  all  came  home  frequently, 
it  appeared,  and  were  bound  up  closely  with  the  interests  of 
the  family  as  a  whole. 

"The  more  you  know  about  the  Blue  family,"  observed 
Samuel  to  Eugene,  who  expressed  surprise  at  the  solidarity  of 
interest,  "the  more  you  realize  that  they're  a  clan  not  a  family. 
They  stick  together  like  glue." 

"That's  a  rather  nice  trait,  I  should  say,"  laughed  Eugene, 
who  felt  no  such  keen  interest  in  his  relatives. 

"Well,  if  you  want  to  find  out  how  the  Blue  family  stick 
together  just  do  something  to  one  of  them,"  observed  Jake  Doll, 
a  neighbor  who  had  entered. 

"That's  sure  true,  isn't  it,  Sis,"  observed  Samuel,  who  was 
sitting  next  to  Angela,  putting  his  hand  affectionately  on  his 
sister's  arm.  Eugene  noted  the  movement.  She  nodded  her 
head  affectionately. 

"Yes,  we  Blues  all  hang  together." 

Eugene  almost  begrudged  him  his  sister's  apparent  affection. 
Could  such  a  girl  be  cut  out  of  such  an  atmosphere — separated 
from  it  completely,  brought  into  a  radically  different  world,  he 
wondered.  Would  she  understand  him;  would  he  stick  by  her. 
He  smiled  at  Jotham  and  Mrs.  Blue  and  thought  he  ought  to, 
but  life  was  strange.  You  never  could  tell  what  might  happen. 

During  the  afternoon  there  were  more  lovely  impressions.  He 
and  Angela  sat  alone  in  the  cool  parlor  for  two  hours  after 
dinner  while  he  restated  his  impressions  of  her  over  and  over.  He 
told  her  how  charming  he  thought  her  home  was,  how  nice 
her  father  and  mother,  what  interesting  brothers  she  had.  He 
made  a  genial  sketch  of  Jotham  as  he  had  strolled  up  to  him 
at  noon,  which  pleased  Angela  and  she  kept  it  to  show  to  her 
father.  He  made  her  pose  in  the  window  and  sketched  her 
head  and  her  halo  of  hair.  He  thought  of  his  double  page 
illustration  of  the  Bowery  by  night  and  wrent  to  fetch  it,  looking 
for  the  first  time  at  the  sweet  cool  room  at  the  end  of  the 
house  which  he  was  to  occupy.  One  window,  a  west  one,  had 
hollyhocks  looking  in,  and  the  door  to  the  north  gave  out  on  the 
cool,  shady  grass.  He  moved  in  beauty,  he  thought;  was 
treading  on  showered  happiness.  It  hurt  him  to  think  that 


124"  THE   "GENIUS" 

such  joy  might  not  always  be,  as  though  beauty  were  not  every- 
where and  forever  present. 

When  Angela  saw  the  picture  which  Truth  had  reproduced, 
she  was  beside  herself  with  joy  and  pride  and  happiness.  It 
was  such  a  testimony  to  her  lover's  ability.  He  had  written 
almost  daily  of  the  New  York  art  world,  so  she  was  familiar 
with  that  in  exaggerated  ideas,  but  these  actual  things,  like 
reproduced  pictures,  were  different.  The  whole  world  would 
see  this  picture.  He  must  be  famous  already,  she  imagined. 

That  evening  and  the  next  and  the  next  as  they  sat  in  the 
parlor  alone  he  drew  nearer  and  nearer  to  that  definite  under- 
standing which  comes  between  a  man  and  woman  when  they 
love.  Eugene  could  never  stop  with  mere  kissing  and  caressing 
in  a  reserved  way,  if  not  persistently  restrained.  It  seemed 
natural  to  him  that  love  should  go  on.  He  had  not  been  married. 
He  did  not  know  what  its  responsibilities  were.  He  had  never 
given  a  thought  to  what  his  parents  had  endured  to  make  him 
worth  while.  There  was  no  instinct  in  him  to  tell  him.  He  had 
no  yearnings  for  parenthood,  that  normal  desire  which  gives 
visions  of  a  home  and  the  proper  social  conditions  for  rearing  a 
family.  All  he  thought  of  was  the  love  making  period — the 
billing  and  cooing  and  the  transports  of  delight  which  come 
with  it.  With  Angela  he  felt  that  these  would  be  super- 
normal precisely  because  she  was  so  slow  in  yielding — so  on 
the  defensive  against  herself.  He  could  look  in  her  eyes  at 
times  and  see  a  swooning  veil  which  foreshadowed  a  storm  of 
emotion.  He  would  sit  by  her  stroking  her  hands,  touching  her 
cheek,  smoothing  her  hair,  or  at  other  times  holding  her  in 
his  arms.  It  was  hard  for  her  to  resist  those  significant  pressures 
he  gave,  to  hold  him  at  arm's  length,  for  she  herself  was  eager 
for  the  delights  of  love. 

It  was  on  the  third  night  of  his  stay  and  in  the  face  of  his 
growing  respect  for  every  member  of  this  family,  that  he  swept 
Angela  to.  the  danger  line — would  have  carried  her  across  it  had 
it  not  been  for  a  fortuitous  wave  of  emotion,  which  was  not 
of  his  creation,  but  of  hers. 

They  had  been  to  the  little  lake,  Okoonee,  a  little  way  from 
the  house  during  the  afternoon  for  a  swim. 

Afterward  he  and  Angela  and  David  and  Marietta  had 
taken  a  drive.  It  was  one  of  those  lovely  afternoons  that  come 
sometimes  in  summer  and  speak  direct  to  the  heart  of  love  and 
beauty.  It  was  so  fair  and  wrarm,  the  shadows  of  the  trees 
so  comforting  that  they  fairly  made  Eugene's  heart  ache.  He 
was  young  now,  life  was  beautiful,  but  how  would  it  be  when 


THE    "GENIUS'  125 

he  was  old?  A  morbid  anticipation  of  disaster  seemed  to 
harrow  his  soul. 

The  sunset  had  already  died  away  when  they  drew  near  home. 
Insects  hummed,  a  cow-bell  tinkled  now  and  then;  breaths 
of  cool  air,  those  harbingers  of  the  approaching  eve,  swept  their 
cheeks  as  they  passed  occasional  hollows.  Approaching  the 
house  they  saw  the  blue  smoke  curls  rising  from  the  kitchen 
chimney,  foretelling  the  preparation  of  the  evening  meal.  Eugene 
clasped  Angela's  hand  in  an  ecstasy  of  emotion. 

He  wanted  to  dream — sitting  in  the  hammock  with  Angela 
as  the  dusk  fell,  watching  the  pretty  scene.  Life  was  all  around. 
Jotham  and  Benjamin  came  in  from  the  fields  and  the  sound 
of  their  voices  and  of  the  splashing  water  came  from  the  kitchen 
door  where  they  were  washing.  There  was  an  anticipatory 
stamping  of  horses'  feet  in  the  barn,  the  lowing  of  a  distant  cow, 
the  hungry  grunt  of  pigs.  Eugene  shook  his  head — it  was  so 
pastoral,  so  sweet. 

At  supper  he  scarcely  touched  what  was  put  before  him, 
the  group  at  the  dining  table  holding  his  attention  as  a  spectacle. 
Afterwards  he  sat  with  the  family  on  the  lawn  outside  the  door, 
breathing  the  odor  of  flowers,  watching  the  stars  over  the  trees, 
listening  to  Jotham  and  Mrs.  Blue,  to  Samuel,  Benjamin, 
David,  Marietta  and  occasionally  Angela.  Because  of  his  mood, 
sad  in  the  face  of  exquisite  beauty,  she  also  was  subdued.  She 
said  little,  listening  to  Eugene  and  her  father,  but  when  she 
did  talk  her  voice  was  sweet. 

Jotham  arose,  after  a  time,  and  went  to  bed,  and  one  by  one 
the  others  followed.  David  and  Marietta  went  into  the  sitting 
room  and  then  Samuel  and  Benjamin  left.  They  gave  as  an 
excuse  hard  work  for  the  morning.  Samuel  was  going  to  try 
his  hand  again  at  thrashing.  Eugene  took  Angela  by  the  hand 
and  led  her  out  where  some  hydrangeas  were  blooming,  white 
as  snow  by  day,  but  pale  and  silvery  in  the  dark.  He  took  her 
face  in  his  hands,  telling  her  again  of  love. 

"It's  been  such  a  wonderful  day  I'm  all  wrought  up,"  he 
said.  "Life  is  so  beautiful  here.  This  place  is  so  sweet  and 
peaceful.  And  you!  oh,  you!"  kisses  ended  his  words. 

They  stood  there  a  little  while,  then  went  back  into  the 
parlor  where  she  lighted  a  lamp.  It  cast  a  soft  yellow  glow 
over  the  room,  just  enough  to  make  it  warm,  he  thought.  They 
sat  first  side  by  side  on  two  rocking  chairs  and  then  later  on  a 
settee,  he  holding  her  in  his  arms.  Before  supper  she  had 
changed  to  a  loose  cream  colored  house  gown.  Now  Eugene 
persuaded  her  to  let  her  hair  hang  in  the  two  braids. 


ia6  THE    "GENIUS" 

Real  passion  is  silent.  It  was  so  intense  with  him  that  he  sat 
contemplating  her  as  if  in  a  spell.  She  leaned  back  against  his 
shoulder  stroking  his  hair,  but  finally  ceased  even  that,  for  her 
own  feeling  was  too  intense  to  make  movement  possible.  She 
thought  of  him  as  a  young  god,  strong,  virile,  beautiful — a 
brilliant  future  before  him.  All  these  years  she  had  waited 
for  someone  to  truly  love  her  and  now  this  splendid  youth  had 
apparently  cast  himself  at  her  feet.  He  stroked  her  hands,  her 
neck,  cheeks,  then  slowly  gathered  her  close  and  buried  his  head 
against  her  bosom. 

Angela  was  strong  in  convention,  in  the  precepts  of  her  parents, 
in  the  sense  of  her  family  and  its  attitude,  but  this  situation  was 
more  than  she  could  resist.  She  accepted  first  the  pressure  of  his 
arm,  then  the  slow  subtlety  with  which  he  caressed  her.  Re- 
sistance seemed  almost  impossible  now  for  he  held  her  close — 
tight  within  the  range  of  his  magnetism.  When  finally  she 
felt  the  pressure  of  his  hand  upon  her  quivering  limbs,  she 
threw  herself  back  in  a  transport  of  agony  and  delight. 

"No,  no,  Eugene,"  she  begged.  "No,  no!  Save  me  from 
myself.  Save  me  from  myself.  Oh,  Eugene!" 

He  paused  a  moment  to  look  at  her  face.  It  was  wrought 
in  lines  of  intense  suffering — pale  as  though  she  were  ill.  Her 
body  was  quite  limp.  Only  the  hot,  moist  lips  told  the  significant 
story.  He  could  not  stop  at  once.  Slowly  he  drew  his 
hand  away,  then  let  his  sensitive  artists'  fingers  rest  gently  on  her 
neck — her  bosom. 

She  struggled  lamely  at  this  point  and  slipped  to  her  knees, 
her  dress  loosened  at  the  neck. 

"Don't,  Eugene,"  she  begged,  "don't.  Think  of  my  father,  my 
mother.  I,  who  have  boasted  so.  I  of  whom  they  feel  so 
sure.  Oh,  Eugene,  I  beg  of  you!" 

He  stroked  her  hair,  her  cheeks,  looking  into  her  face  as 
Abelard  might  have  looked  at  Heloise. 

"Oh,  I  know  why  it  is,"  she  exclaimed,  convulsively.  "I 
am  no  better  than  any  other,  but  I  have  waited  so  long,  so  long! 
But  I  mustn't!  Oh,  Eugene,  I  mustn't!  Help  me!" 

Vaguely  Eugene  understood.  She  had  been  without  lovers. 
Why?  he  thought.  She  was  beautiful.  He  got  up,  half  in- 
tending to  carry  her  to  his  room,  but  he  paused,  thinking.  She 
was  such  a  pathetic  figure.  Was  he  really  as  bad  as  this  ?  Could 
he  not  be  fair  in  this  one  instance?  Her  father  had  been  so 
nice  to  him — her  mother — He  saw  Jotham  Blue  before  him,  Mrs. 
Blue,  her  admiring  brothers  and  sisters,  as  they  had  been  a 
little  while  before.  He  looked  at  her  and  still  the  prize  lured 


THE    "GENIUS'  127 

him — almost  swept  him  on  in  spite  of  himself,  but  he  stayed. 

"Stand  up,  Angela/'  he  said  at  last,  pulling  himself  together, 
looking  at  her  intensely.  She  did  so.  "Leave  me  now/'  he 
went  on,  "right  away!  I  won't  answer  for  myself  if  you 
don't.  I  am  really  trying.  Please  go." 

She  paused,  looking  at  him  fearfully,  regretfully. 

"Oh,  forgive  me,   Eugene,"  she  pleaded. 

"Forgive  me,"  he  said.  "I'm  the  one.  But  you  go  now, 
sweet.  You  don't  know  how  hard  this  is.  Help  me  by  going." 

She  moved  away  and  he  followed  her  with  his  eyes,  yearningly, 
burningly,  until  she  reached  the  door.  When  she  closed  it  softly 
he  went  into  his  own  room  and  sat  down.  His  body  was  limp 
and  weary.  He  ached  from  head  to  foot  from  the  intensity  of 
the  mood  he  had  passed  through.  He  went  over  the  recent 
incidents,  almost  stunned  by  his  experience  and  then  went 
outside  and  stood  under  the  stairs,  listening.  Tree  toads  were 
chirping,  there  were  suspicious  cracklings  in  the  grass  as  of 
bugs  stirring.  A  duck  quacked  somewhere  feebly.  The  bell 
of  the  family  cow  tinkled  somewhere  over  near  the  water  of  the 
little  stream.  He  saw  the  great  dipper  in  the  sky,  Sirius, 
Canopus,  the  vast  galaxy  of  the  Milky  Way. 

"What  is  life  anyway?"  he  asked  himself.  "What  is  the 
human  body?  What  produces  passion?  Here  we  are  for  a  few 
years  surging  with  a  fever  of  longing  and  then  we  burn  out 
and  die."  He  thought  of  some  lines  he  might  write,  of  pictures 
he  might  paint.  All  the  while,  reproduced  before  his  mind's 
eye  like  a  cinematograph,  were  views  of  Angela  as  she  had  been 
tonight  in  his  arms,  on  her  knees.  He  had  seen  her  true 
form.  He  had  held  her  in  his  arms.  He  had  voluntarily  resigned 
her  charms  for  tonight;  anyhow,  no  harm  had  come.  It  never 
should. 


CHAPTER   XIX 

IT  would  be  hard  to  say  in  what  respect,  if  any,  the  ex- 
periences of  this  particular  night  altered  Eugene's  opinion 
of  Angela.  He  was  inclined  to  like  her  better  for  what  he  would 
have  called  her  humanness.  Thus  frankly  to  confess  her  weak- 
ness and  inability  to  save  herself  was  splendid.  That  he  was 
given  the  chance  to  do  a  noble  deed  was  fortunate  and  uplifting. 
He  knew  now  that  he  could  take  her  if  he  wished,  but  once 
calm  again  he  resolved  to  be  fair  and  not  to  insist.  He  could 
wait. 

The  state  of  Angela's  mind,  on  the  contrary,  once  she  had 
come  out  of  her  paroxysm  and  gained  the  privacy  of  her  own 
room,  or  rather  the  room  she  shared  with  Marietta  at  the  other 
extreme  of  the  house,  was  pitiable.  She  had  for  so  long  con- 
sidered herself  an  estimable  and  virtuous  girl.  There  was  in 
her  just  a  faint  trace  of  prudery  which  might  readily  have 
led  to  an  unhappy  old  maid  existence  for  her  if  Eugene,  writh 
his  superiority,  or  non-understanding,  or  indifference  to  con- 
ventional theories  and  to  old-maidish  feelings,  had  not  come 
along  and  with  his  customary  blindness  to  material  prosperity 
and  age  limitations,  seized  upon  and  made  love  to  her.  He  had 
filled  her  brain  with  a  whirlwind  of  notions  hitherto  unfamiliar 
to  her  world  and  set  himself  up  in  her  brain  as  a  law  unto  him- 
self. He  was  not  like  other  men — she  could  see  that.  He 
was  superior  to  them.  He  might  not  make  much  money,  being 
an  artist,  but  he  could  make  other  things  which  to  her  seemed 
more  desirable.  Fame,  beautiful  pictures,  notable  friends,  were 
not  these  things  far  superior  to  money?  She  had  had  little 
enough  money  in  all  conscience,  and  if  Eugene  made  anything 
at  all  it  would  be  enough  for  her.  He  seemed  to  be  under 
the  notion  that  he  needed  a  lot  to  get  married,  whereas  she 
would  have  been  glad  to  risk  it  on  almost  anything  at  all. 

This  latest  revelation  of  herself,  besides  tearing  her  mind 
from  a  carefully  nurtured  belief  in  her  own  virtuous  impregna- 
bility, raised  at  the  same  time  a  spectre  of  disaster  in  so  far  as 
Eugene's  love  for  her  was  concerned.  Would  he,  now  that 
she  had  allowed  him  those  precious  endearments  which  should 
have  been  reserved  for  the  marriage  bed  only,  care  for  her 
as  much  as  he  had  before?  Would  he  not  think  of  her  as  a 
light  minded,  easily  spoiled  creature  who  was  waiting  only 

128 


THE    "GENIUS'  129 

for  a  propitious  moment  to  yield  herself?  She  had  been  lost* 
to  all  sense  of  right  and  wrong  in  that  hour,  that  she  knew. 
Her  father's  character  and  what  he  stood  for,  her  mother's 
decency  and  love  of  virtue,  her  cleanly-minded,  right-living 
brothers  and  sisters, — all  had  been  forgotten  and  here  she  was, 
a  tainted  maiden,  virtuous  in  technical  sense  it  is  true,  but 
tainted.  Her  convention-trained  conscience  smote  her  vigor- 
ously and  she  groaned  in  her  heart.  She  went  outside  the  door 
of  her  own  room  and  sat  down  on  the  damp  grass  in  the 
early  morning  to  think.  It  was  so  cool  and  calm  everywhere 
but  in  her  own  soul.  She  held  her  face  in  her  hands,  feeling 
her  hot  cheeks,  wrondering  what  Eugene  was  thinking  now. 
What  would  her  father  think,  her  mother?  She  wrung  her  hands 
more  than  once  and  finally  went  inside  to  see  if  she  could  not 
rest.  She  was  not  unconscious  of  the  beauty  and  joy  of  the 
episode,  but  she  was  troubled  by  what  she  felt  she  ought  to 
think,  what  the  consequences  to  her  future  might  be.  To 
hold  Eugene  now — that  was  a  subtle  question.  To  hold  up  her 
head  in  front  of  him  as  she  had,  could  she?  To  keep  him 
from  going  further.  It  was  a  difficult  situation  and  she 
tossed  restlessly  all  night,  getting  little  sleep.  In  the  morning 
she  arose  weary  and  disturbed,  but  more  desperately  in  love 
than  ever.  This  wonderful  youth  had  revealed  an  entirely 
new  and  intensely  dramatic  world  to  her. 

When  they  met  on  the  lawn  again  before  breakfast,  Angela 
was  garbed  in  white  linen.  She  looked  waxen  and  delicate 
and  her  eyes  showed  dark  rings  as  well  as  the  dark  thoughts 
that  were  troubling  her.  Eugene  took  her  hand  sympathetically. 

"Don't  worry,"  he  said,  "I  know.  It  isn't  as  bad  as  you 
think."  And  he  smiled  tenderly. 

"Oh,  Eugene,  I  don't  understand  myself  now,"  she  said 
sorrowfully.  "I  thought  I  was  better  than  that." 

"We're  none  of  us  better  than  that,"  he  replied  simply. 
"We  just  think  we  are  sometimes.  You  are  not  any  different 
to  me.  You  just  think  you  are." 

"Oh,  are  you  sure?"  she  asked  eagerly. 

"Quite  sure,"  he  replied.  "Love  isn't  a  terrible  thing  be- 
tween any  two.  It's  just  lovely.  Why  should  I  think  worse 
of  you?" 

"Oh,  because  good  girls  don't  do  what  I  have  done.  I  have 
been  raised  to  know  better — to  do  better." 

"All  a  belief,  my  dear,  which  you  get  from  what  has  been 
taught  you.  You  think  it  wrong.  Why?  Because  your  father 
and  mother  told  you  so.  Isn't  that  it?" 


130  THE    "GENIUS" 

"Oh,  not  that  alone.  Everybody  thinks  it's  wrong.  The 
Bible  teaches  that  it  is.  Everybody  turns  his  back  on  you 
when  he  finds  out." 

"Wait  a  minute,"  pleaded  Eugene  argumentatively.  He  was 
trying  to  solve  this  puzzle  for  himself.  "Let's  leave  the  Bible 
out  of  it,  for  I  don't  believe  in  the  Bible — not  as  a  law  of 
action  anyhow.  The  fact  that  everybody  thinks  it's  wrong 
wouldn't  necessarily  make  it  so,  would  it?"  He  was  ignoring 
completely  the  significance  of  everybody  as  a  reflection  of  those 
principles  which  govern  the  universe. 

"No-o-o,"  ventured  Angela  doubtfully. 

"Listen,"  went  on  Eugene.  "Everybody  in  Constantinople 
believes  that  Mahomet  is  the  Prophet  of  God.  That  doesn't 
make  him  so,  does  it?" 

"No." 

"Well,  then,  everyone  here  might  believe  that  what  wre  did 
last  night  was  wrong  without  making  it  so.  Isn't  that  true?" 

"Yes,"  replied  Angela  confusedly.  She  really  did  not  know. 
She  could  not  argue  with  him.  He  was  too  subtle,  but  her  innate 
principles  and  instincts  were  speaking  plainly  enough,  neverthe- 
less. 

"Now  what  you're  really  thinking  about  is  what  people  will 
do.  They'll  turn  their  backs  on  you,  you  say.  That  is  a  practical 
matter.  Your  father  might  turn  you  out  of  doors — " 

"I  think  he  would,"  replied  Angela,  little  understanding  the 
bigness  of  the  heart  of  her  father. 

"I  think  he  wouldn't,"  said  Eugene,  "but  that's  neither  here 
nor  there.  Men  might  refuse  to  marry  you.  Those  are  ma- 
terial considerations.  You  wouldn't  say  they  had  anything  to 
do  with  real  right  or  wrong,  would  you  ?" 

Eugene  had  no  convincing  end  to  his  argument.  He  did  not 
know  any  more  than  anyone  else  what  was  right  or  wrong  in 
this  matter.  He  was  merely  talking  to  convince  himself,  but  he 
had  enough  logic  to  confuse  Angela. 

"I   don't  know,"   she  said  vaguely. 

"Right,"  he  went  on  loftily,  "is  something  which  is  supposed 
to  be  in  accordance  with  a  standard  of  truth.  Now  no  one 
in  all  the  world  knows  what  truth  is,  no  one.  There  is  no 
way  of  telling.  You  can  only  act  wisely  or  unwisely  as  regards 
your  personal  welfare.  If  that's  what  you're  worrying  about, 
and  it  is,  I  can  tell  you  that  you're  no  worse  off.  There's 
nothing  the  matter  with  your  welfare.  I  think  you're  better 
off,  for  I  like  you  better." 

Angela  wondered  at  the  subtlety  of  his  brain.     She  was  not 


THE   "  GENIUS'1  131 

but  that  what  he  said  might  be  true.  Could  her  fears 
be  baseless?  She  felt  sure  she  had  lost  some  of  the  bloom  of  her 
youth  anyhow. 

"How  can  you?"  she  asked,  referring  to  his  saying  that  he 
liked  her  better. 

"Easily  enough,"  he  replied.  "I  know  more  about  you.  I 
admire  your  frankness.  You're  lovely — altogether  so.  You 
are  sweet  beyond  compare."  He  started  to  particularize. 

"Don't,  Eugene,"  she  pleaded,  putting  her  finger  over  her  lips. 
The  color  was  leaving  her  cheeks.  "Please  don't,  I  can't  stand 
it." 

"All  right,"  he  said,  "I  won't.  But  you're  altogether  lovely. 
Let's  go  and  sit  in  the  hammock." 

"No.  I'm  going  to  get  you  your  breakfast.  It's  time  you 
had  something." 

He  took  comfort  in  his  privileges,  for  the  others  had  all  gone. 
Jotham,  Samuel,  Benjamin  and  David  were  in  the  fields.  Mrs. 
Blue  was  sewing  and  Marietta  had  gone  to  see  a  girl  friend  up 
the  road.  Angela,  as  Ruby  before  her,  bestirred  herself  about 
the  youth's  meal,  mixing  biscuit,  broiling  him  some  bacon,  clean- 
ing a  basket  of  fresh  dewberries  for  him. 

"I  like  your  man,"  said  her  mother,  coming  out  where  she 
was  working.  "He  looks  to  be  good-natured.  But  don't  spoil 
him.  If  you  begin  wrong  you'll  be  sorry." 

"You  spoiled  papa,  didn't  you?"  asked  Angela  sagely,  recalling 
all  the  little  humorings  her  father  had  received. 

"Your  father  has  a  keen  sense  of  duty,"  retorted  her  mother. 
"It  didn't  hurt  him  to  be  spoiled  a  little." 

"Maybe  Eugene  has,"  replied  her  daughter,  turning  her  slices 
of  bacon. 

Her  mother  smiled.  All  her  daughters  had  married  well. 
Perhaps  Angela  was  doing  the  best  of  all.  Certainly  her  lover 
was  the  most  distinguished.  Yet,  "well  to  be  careful,"  she 
suggested. 

Angela  thought.  If  her  mother  only  knew,  or  her  father. 
Dear  Heaven!  And  yet  Eugene  was  altogether  lovely.  She 
wanted  to  wait  on  him,  to  spoil  him.  She  wished  she  could  be 
with  him  every  day  from  now  on — that  they  need  not  part  any 
more. 

"Oh,  if  he  would  only  marry  me,"  she  sighed.  It  was  the 
one  divine  event  which  would  complete  her  life. 

Eugene  would  have  liked  to  linger  in  this  atmosphere  in- 
definitely. Old  Jotham,  he  found,  liked  to  talk  to  him.  He 
took  an  interest  in  national  and  international  affairs,  was  aware 


132  THE    "GENIUS'5 

of  distinguished  and  peculiar  personalities,  seemed  to  follow 
world  currents  everywhere.  Eugene  began  to  think  of  him  as 
a  distinguished  personality  in  himself,  but  old  Jotham  waved 
the  suggestion  blandly  aside. 

"I'm  a  farmer,"  he  said.  "I've  seen  my  greatest  success 
in  raising  good  children.  My  boys  will  do  well,  I  know." 

For  the  first  time  Eugene  caught  the  sense  of  fatherhood,  of 
what  it  means  to  live  again  in  your  children,  but  only  vaguely. 
He  was  too  young,  too  eager  for  a  varied  life,  too  lustful.  So  its 
true  import  was  lost  for  the  time. 

Sunday  came  and  with  it  the  necessity  to  leave.  He  had 
been  here  nine  days,  really  two  days  more  than  he  had  intended 
to  stay.  It  was  farewell  to  Angela,  who  had  come  so  close, 
so  much  in  his  grasp  that  she  was  like  a  child  in  his  hands.  It 
was  farewell,  moreover,  to  an  ideal  scene,  a  bit  of  bucolic 
poetry.  When  would  he  see  again  an  old  patriarch  like  Jotham, 
clean,  kindly,  intelligent,  standing  upright  amid  his  rows  of 
corn,  proud  to  be  a  good  father,  not  ashamed  to  be  poor,  not 
afraid  to  be  old  or  to  die.  Eugene  had  drawn  so  much  from 
him.  It  was  like  sitting  at  the  feet  of  Isaiah.  It  was  farewell 
to  the  lovely  fields  and  the  blue  hills,  the  long  rows  of  trees  down 
the  lawn  walk,  the  white  and  red  and  blue  flowers  about  the 
dooryard.  He  had  slept  so  sweetly  in  his  clean  room,  he 
had  listened  so  joyously  to  the  voices  of  birds,  the  wood  dove 
and  the  poet  thrush;  he  had  heard  the  water  in  the  Blue's 
branch  rippling  over  its  clean  pebbles.  The  pigs  in  the  barn- 
yard pen,  the  horses,  the  cows,  all  had  appealed  to  him.  He 
thought  of  Gray's  "Elegy"— of  Goldsmith's  "Deserted  Village" 
and  "The  Traveller."  This  was  something  like  the  things  those 
men  had  loved. 

He  walked  down  the  lawn  with  Angela,  when  the  time  came, 
repeating  how  sorry  he  was  to  go.  David  had  hitched  up  a 
little  brown  mare  and  was  waiting  at  the  extreme  end  of  the 
lawn. 

"Oh,  Sweet,"  he  sighed.  "I  shall  never  be  happy  until  I 
have  you." 

"I  will  wait,"  sighed  Angela,  although  she  was  wishing 
to  exclaim:  "Oh,  take  me,  take  me!"  When  he  was  gone  she 
went  about  her  duties  mechanically,  for  it  was  as  if  all  the 
fire  and  joy  had  gone  out  of  her  life.  Without  this  brilliant 
imagination  of  his  to  illuminate  things,  life  seemed  dull. 

And  he  rode,  parting  in  his  mind  with  each  lovely  thing  as 
he  went — the  fields  of  wheat,  the  little  stream,  Lake  Okoonee, 
the  pretty  Blue  farmhouse,  all. 


136  THE  "GENIUS'  133 

He  said  to  himself:  "Nothing  more  lovely  will  ever  come 
again.  Angela  in  my  arms  in  her  simple  little  parlor.  Dear 
God !  and  there  are  only  seventy  years  of  life — not  more  than  ten 
or  fifteen  of  true  youth,  all  told." 


CHAPTER   XX 

EUGENE  carried  home  with  him  not  only  a  curiously  deep- 
ened feeling  for  Angela,  due  to  their  altered  and  more 
intimate  relationship,  but  moreover  a  growing  respect  for  her 
family.  Old  Jotham  was  so  impressive  a  figure  of  a  man;  his 
wife  so  kindly  and  earnest.  Their  attitude  toward  their  children 
and  to  each  other  was  so  sound,  and  their  whole  relationship 
to  society  so  respectable.  Another  observer  might  have  been 
repelled  by  the  narrowness  and  frugality  of  their  lives.  But 
Eugene  had  not  known  enough  of  luxury  to  be  scornful  of  the 
material  simplicity  of  such  existence.  Here  he  had  found  char- 
acter, poetry  of  location,  poetry  of  ambition,  youth  and  happy 
prospects.  These  boys,  so  sturdy  and  independent,  were  sure 
to  make  for  themselves  such  places  in  the  world  as  they  desired. 
Marietta,  so  charming  a  girl,  could  not  but  make  a  good  marriage. 
Samuel  was  doing  well  in  his  position  with  the  railroad  com- 
pany; Benjamin  was  studying  to  be  a  lawyer  and  David  was 
to  be  sent  to  West  Point.  He  liked  them  for  their  familiar, 
sterling  worth.  And  they  all  treated  him  as  the  destined  hus- 
band of  Angela.  By  the  end  of  his  stay  he  had  become  as 
much  en  rapport  with  the  family  as  if  he  had  known  it  all 
his  life. 

Before  going  back  to  New  York  he  had  stopped  in  Chicago, 
where  he  had  seen  Howe  and  Mathews  grinding  away  at 
their  old  tasks,  and  then  for  a  few  days  in  Alexandria,  where 
he  found  his  father  busy  about  his  old  affairs.  Sewing  machines 
were  still  being  delivered  by  him  in  person,  and  the  long  roads 
of  the  country  were  as  briskly  traversed  by  his  light  machine- 
carrying  buggy  as  in  his  earliest  days.  Eugene  saw  him  now  as 
just  a  little  futile,  and  yet  he  admired  him,  his  patience,  his 
industry.  The  brisk  sewing  machine  agent  was  considerably 
impressed  by  his  son's  success,  and  was  actually  trying  to  take 
an  interest  in  art.  One  evening  coming  home  from  the  post 
office  he  pointed  out  a  street  scene  in  Alexandria  as  a  subject 
for  a  painting.  Eugene  knew  that  art  had  only  been  called  to 
his  father's  attention  by  his  own  efforts.  He  had  noticed  these 
things  all  his  life,  no  doubt,  but  attached  no  significance  to 
them  until  he  had  seen  his  son's  work  in  the  magazines.  "If 
you  ever  paint  country  things,  you  ought  to  paint  Cook's  Mill, 
over  here  by  the  falls.  That's  one  of  the  prettiest  things  I 

134 


THE    "GENIUS  "  135 

know  anywhere,"  he  said  to  him  one  evening,  trying  to  make  his 
son  feel  the  interest  he  took.  Eugene  knew  the  place.  It  was 
attractive,  a  little  branch  of  bright  water  running  at  the  base  of  a 
forty  foot  wall  of  red  sandstone  and  finally  tumbling  down  a 
fifteen  foot  declivity  of  grey  mossy  stones.  It  was  close  to  a 
yellow  road  which  carried  a  good  deal  of  traffic  and  was  sur- 
rounded by  a  company  of  trees  which  ornamented  it  and  shel- 
tered it  on  all  sides.  Eugene  had  admired  it  in  his  youth  as 
beautiful  and  peaceful. 

"It  is  nice,"  he  replied  to  his  father.  "I'll  take  a  look  at  it 
some  day." 

Witla  senior  felt  set  up.  His  son  was  doing  him  honor. 
Mrs.  Witla,  like  her  husband,  was  showing  the  first  notable 
traces  of  the  flight  of  time.  The  crow's-feet  at  the  sides  of 
her  eyes  were  deeper,  the  wrinkles  in  her  forehead  longer.  At 
the  sight  of  Eugene  the  first  night  she  fairly  thrilled,  for  he  was 
so  well  developed  now,  so  self-reliant.  He  had  come  through 
his  experiences  to  a  kind  of  poise  which  she  realized  was  man- 
hood. Her  boy,  requiring  her  careful  guidance,  was  gone. 
This  was  someone  wrho  could  guide  her,  tease  her  as  a  man 
would  a  child. 

"You've  got  so  big  I  hardly  know  you,"  she  said,  as  he  folded 
her  in  his  arms. 

"No,  you're  just  getting  little,  ma.  I  used  to  think  I'd 
never  get  to  the  point  where  you  couldn't  shake  me,  but  that's 
all  over,  isn't  it?" 

"You  never  did  need  much  shaking,"  she  said  fondly. 

Myrtle,  who  had  married  Frank  Bangs  the  preceding  year, 
had  gone  with  her  husband  to  live  in  Ottumwa,  Iowa,  where 
he  had  taken  charge  of  a  mill,  so  Eugene  did  not  see  her,  but  he 
spent  some  little  time  with  Sylvia,  now  the  mother  of  two 
children.  Her  husband  was  the  same  quiet,  conservative  plodder 
Eugene  had  first  noted  him  to  be.  Revisiting  the  office  of  the 
Appeal  he  found  that  John  Summers  had  recently  died.  Other- 
wise things  were  as  they  had  been.  Jonas  Lyle  and  Caleb 
Williams  were  still  in  charge — quite  the  same  as  before.  Eugene 
was  glad  when  his  time  was  up,  and  took  the  train  back  to 
Chicago  with  a  light  heart. 

Again  as  on  his  entrance  to  Chicago  from  the  East,  and  on 
his  return  to  it  from  Blackwood,  he  was  touched  keenly  by  the 
remembrance  of  Ruby.  She  had  been  so  sweet  to  him.  His 
opening  art  experiences  had  in  a  way  been  centred  about  her. 
But  in  spite  of  all,  he  did  not  want  to  go  out  and  see  her.  Or 
did  he?  He  asked  himself  this  question  with  a  pang  of  sorrow, 


136  THE    "GENIUS" 

for  in  a  way  he  cared.  He  cared  for  her  as  one  might  care 
for  a  girl  in  a  play  or  book.  She  had  the  quality  of  a  tragedy 
about  her.  She — her  life,  her  surroundings,  her  misfortune  in 
loving  him,  constituted  an  artistic  composition.  He  thought 
he  might  be  able  to  write  a  poem  about  it  some  time.  He 
was  able  to  write  rather  charming  verse  which  he  kept  to 
himself.  He  had  the  knack  of  saying  things  in  a  simple  way 
and  with  feeling — making  you  see  a  picture.  The  trouble 
with  his  verse  was  that  it  lacked  as  yet  any  real  nobility  of 
thought — was  not  as  final  in  understanding  as  it  might  have 
been. 

He  did  not  go  to  see  Ruby.  The  reason  he  assigned  to  him- 
self was  that  it  would  not  be  nice.  She  might  not  want  him 
to  now.  She  might  be  trying  to  forget.  And  he  had  Angela. 
It  really  wasn't  fair  to  her.  But  he  looked  over  toward  the 
region  in  which  she  lived,  as  he  travelled  out  of  the  city  eastward 
and  wished  that  some  of  those  lovely  moments  he  had  spent  with 
her  might  be  lived  again. 

Back  in  New  York,  life  seemed  to  promise  a  repetition  of 
the  preceding  year,  with  some  minor  modifications.  In  the  fall 
Eugene  went  to  live  with  McHugh  and  Smite,  the  studio 
they  had  consisting  of  one  big  working  room  and  three  bed- 
rooms. They  agreed  that  they  could  get  along  together,  and 
for  a  while  it  was  good  for  them  all.  The  criticism  they 
furnished  each  other  was  of  real  value.  And  they  found  it 
pleasant  to  dine  together,  to  walk,  to  see  the  exhibitions.  They 
stimulated  each  other  with  argument,  each  having  a  special 
point  of  view.  It  was  much  as  it  had  been  with  Howe  and 
Mathews  in  Chicago. 

During  this  winter  Eugene  made  his  first  appearance  in  one  of 
the  leading  publications  of  the  time — Harper 's  Magazine.  He 
had  gone  to  the  Art  Director  with  some  proofs  of  his  previous 
work,  and  had  been  told  that  it  was  admirable;  if  some  suitable 
story  turned  up  he  would  be  considered.  Later  a  letter  came 
asking  him  to  call,  and  a  commission  involving  three  pictures 
for  $125  was  given  him.  He  worked  them  out  successfully 
with  models  and  was  complimented  on  the  result.  His  asso- 
ciates cheered  him  on  also,  for  they  really  admired  what  he  was 
doing.  He  set  out  definitely  to  make  Scribners  and  the  Cen- 
tury, as  getting  into  those  publications  was  called,  and  after  a 
time  he  succeeded  in  making  an  impression  on  their  respective  Art 
Directors,  though  no  notable  commissions  were  given  him. 
From  one  he  secured  a  poem,  rather  out  of  his  mood  to  decorate, 
and  from  the  other  a  short  story;  but  somehow  he  could  not  feel 


THE  "GENIUS'  137 

that  either  was  a  real  opportunity.  He  wanted  an  appropriate 
subject  or  to  sell  them  some  of  his  scenes. 

Building  up  a  paying  reputation  was  slow  work.  Although  he 
was  being  mentioned  here  and  there  among  artists,  his  name 
was  anything  but  a  significant  factor  with  the  public  or  with 
the  Art  Directors.  He  was  still  a  promising  beginner — growing, 
but  not  yet  arrived  by  a  long  distance. 

There  was  one  editor  who  was  inclined  to  see  him  at  his  real 
worth,  but  had  no  money  to  offer.  This  was  Richard  Wheeler, 
editor  of  Craft,  a  rather  hopeless  magazine  in  a  commercial 
sense,  but  devoted  sincerely  enough  to  art.  Wheeler  was  a 
blond  young  man  of  poetic  temperament,  whose  enthusiasm  for 
Eugene's  work  made  it  easy  for  them  to  become  friends. 

It  was  through  Wheeler  that  he  met  that  winter  Miriam 
Finch  and  Christina  Channing,  two  women  of  radically  different 
temperaments  and  professions,  who  opened  for  Eugene  two  en- 
tirely new  wrorlds. 

Miriam  Finch  was  a  sculptor  by  profession — a  critic  by  tem- 
perament, with  no  great  capacity  for  emotion  in  herself  but  an 
intense  appreciation  of  its  significance  in  others.  To  see  her 
was  to  be  immediately  impressed  with  a  vital  force  in  woman- 
hood. She  was  a  woman  who  had  never  had  a  real  youth  or 
a  real  love  affair,  but  clung  to  her  ideal  of  both  with  a  pas- 
sionate, almost  fatuous,  faith  that  they  could  still  be  brought 
to  pass.  Wheeler  had  invited  him  to  go  round  to  her  studio 
with  him  one  evening.  He  was  interested  to  know  what 
Eugene  would  think  of  her.  Miriam,  already  thirty-two  when 
Eugene  met  her — a  tiny,  brown  haired,  brown  eyed  girl,  with 
a  slender,  rather  cat-like  figure  and  a  suavity  of  address  and 
manner  which  was  artistic  to  the  finger  tips.  She  had  none  of 
that  budding  beauty  that  is  the  glory  of  eighteen,  but  she  was 
altogether  artistic  and  delightful.  Her  hair  encircled  her  head 
in  a  fluffy  cloudy  mass;  her  eyes  moved  quickly,  with  intense 
intelligence,  feeling,  humor,  sympathy.  Her  lips  were  sweetly 
modelled  after  the  pattern  of  a  Cupid's  bow  and  her  smile  was 
subtly  ingratiating.  Her  sallow  complexion  matched  her  brown 
hair  and  the  drab  velvet  or  corduroy  of  her  dress.  There  was 
a  striking  simplicity  about  the  things  she  wore  which  gave 
her  a  distinctive  air.  Her  clothes  were  seldom  fashionable 
but  always  exceedingly  becoming,  for  she  saw  herself  as  a  whole 
and  arrayed  herself  as  a  decorative  composition  from  head  to  foot, 
with  a  sense  of  fitness  in  regard  to  self  and  life. 

To  such  a  nature  as  Eugene's,  an  intelligent,  artistic,  self- 
regulating  and  self-poised  human  being  was  always  intensely 


138  THE   "GENIUS" 

magnetic  and  gratifying.  He  turned  to  the  capable  person  as 
naturally  as  a  flower  turns  toward  the  light,  finding  a  joy  in 
contemplating  the  completeness  and  sufficiency  of  such  a  being. 
To  have  ideas  of  your  own  seemed  to  him  a  marvellous  thing. 
To  be  able  definitely  to  formulate  your  thoughts  and  reach 
positive  and  satisfying  conclusions  was  a  great  and  beautiful 
thing.  From  such  personalities  Eugene  drank  admiringly  until 
his  thirst  was  satiated — then  he  would  turn  away.  If  his 
thirst  for  what  they  had  to  give  returned,  he  might  come  back — 
not  otherwise. 

Hitherto  all  his  relationships  with  personages  of  this  quality 
had  been  confined  to  the  male  sex,  for  he  had  not  known  any 
women  of  distinction.  Beginning  with  Temple  Boyle,  instruc- 
tor in  the  life  class  in  Chicago,  and  Vincent  Beers,  instructor 
in  the  illustration  class,  he  had  encountered  successively  Jerry 
Mathews,  Mitchell  Goldfarb,  Peter  McHugh,  David  Smite  and 
Jotham  Blue,  all  men  of  intense  personal  feeling  and  convictions 
and  men  who  had  impressed  him  greatly.  Now  he  was  to 
encounter  for  the  first  time  some  forceful,  really  exceptional 
women  of  the  same  calibre.  Stella  Appleton,  Margaret  Duff, 
Ruby  Kenny  and  Angela  Blue  were  charming  girls  in  their  way, 
but  they  did  not  think  for  themselves.  They  were  not  organized, 
self-directed,  self-controlled  personalities  in  the  way  that  Miriam 
Finch  was.  She  would  have  recognized  herself  at  once  as  being 
infinitely  superior  intellectually  and  artistically  to  any  or  all  of 
them,  while  entertaining  at  the  same  time  a  sympathetic,  appre- 
ciative understanding  of  their  beauty,  fitness,  equality  of  value 
in  the  social  scheme.  She  was  a  student  of  life,  a  critic  of  emo- 
tions and  understanding,  with  keen  appreciative  intelligence, 
and  yet  longing  intensely  for  just  what  Stella  and  Margaret 
and  Ruby  and  even  Angela  had — youth,  beauty,  interest  for 
men,  the  power  or  magnetism  or  charm  of  face  and  form  to 
compel  the  impetuous  passion  of  a  lover.  She  wanted  to  be 
loved  by  someone  who  could  love  madly  and  beautifully,  and 
this  had  never  come  to  her. 

Miss  Finch's  home,  or  rather  studio,  was  with  her  family  in 
East  Twenty-sixth  Street,  where  she  occupied  a  north  room  on 
the  third  floor,  but  her  presence  in  the  bosom  of  that  family  did 
not  prevent  her  from  attaining  an  individuality  and  an  exclusive- 
ness  which  was  most  illuminating  to  Eugene.  Her  room  was 
done  in  silver,  brown  and  grey,  with  a  great  wax-festooned 
candlestick  fully  five  feet  high  standing  in  one  corner  and  a 
magnificent  carved  chest  of  early  Flemish  workmanship  standing 
in  another.  There  was  a  brown  combination  writing  desk  and 


THE    "GENIUS"  139 

book-shelf  which  was  arrayed  with  some  of  the  most  curious 
volumes — Pater's  "Marius  the  Epicurean,"  Daudet's  "Wives  of 
Men  of  Genius,"  Richard  Jefferies'  "Story  of  My  Heart," 
Stevenson's  "Acs  Triplex,"  "The  Kasidah"  of  Richard  Burton, 
"The  House  of  Life"  by  Dante  Gabriel  Rossetti,  "Also  sprach 
Zarathustra"  by  Friedrich  Nietzsche.  The  fact  that  they  were 
here,  after  he  had  taken  one  look  at  the  woman  and  the  room, 
was  to  Eugene  sufficient  proof  that  they  were  important. 
He  handled  them  curiously,  reading  odd  paragraphs,  nosing  about, 
looking  at  pictures,  and  making  rapid  notes  in  his  mental  note- 
book. This  was  someone  worth  knowing,  he  felt  that.  He 
wanted  to  make  a  sufficiently  favorable  impression  to  be  permitted 
to  know  her  better. 

Miriam  Finch  was  at  once  taken  with  Eugene.  There  was 
such  an  air  of  vigor,  inquiry,  appreciation  and  understand- 
ing about  him  that  she  could  not  help  being  impressed.  He 
seemed  somewhat  like  a  lighted  lamp  casting  a  soft,  shaded, 
velvety  glow.  He  went  about  her  room,  after  his  introduction, 
looking  at  her  pictures,  her  bronzes  and  clays,  asking  after 
the  creator  of  this,  the  painter  of  that,  where  a  third  thing 
came  from. 

"I  never  heard  of  one  of  these  books,"  he  said  frankly,  when 
he  looked  over  the  small,  specially  selected  collection. 

"There  are  some  very  interesting  things  here,"  she  volunteered, 
coming  to  his  side.  His  simple  confession  appealed  to  her. 
He  was  like  a  breath  of  fresh  air.  Richard  Wheeler,  who 
had  brought  him  in,  made  no  objection  to  being  neglected.  He 
wanted  her  to  enjoy  his  find. 

"You  know,"  said  Eugene,  looking  up  from  Burton's  "Kasi- 
dah" and  into  her  brown  eyes,  "New  York  gets  me  dizzy.  It's 
so  wonderful!" 

"Just  how?"  she  asked. 

"It's  so  compact  of  wonderful  things.  I  saw  a  shop  the 
other  day  full  of  old  jewelry  and  ornaments  and  quaint  stones  and 
clothes,  and  O  Heaven!  I  don't  know  what  all — more  things 
than  I  had  ever  seen  in  my  whole  life  before;  and  here  in  this 
quiet  side  street  and  this  unpretentious  house  I  find  this  room. 
Nothing  seems  to  show  on  the  outside ;  everything  seems  crowded 
to  suffocation  with  luxury  or  art  value  on  the  inside." 

"Are  you  talking  about  this  room?"  she  ventured. 

"Why,  yes,"  he  replied. 

"Take  note,  Mr.  Wheeler,"  she  called,  over  her  shoulder 
to  her  young  editor  friend.  "This  is  the  first  time  in  my  life  that 
I  have  been  accused  of  possessing  luxury.  When  you  write  me 


HO  THE    "GENIUS" 

up  again  I  want  you  to  give  me  credit  for  luxury.  I  like 
it." 

"I'll  certainly  do  it,"  said  Wheeler. 

"Yes.     'Art  values'  too." 

"Yes.     'Art  values.'     I  have  it,"  said  Wheeler. 

Eugene  smiled.  He  liked  her  vivacity.  "I  know  what  you 
mean,"  she  added.  "I've  felt  the  same  thing  about  Paris.  You 
go  into  little  unpretentious  places  there  and  come  across  such 
wonderful  things — heaps  and  heaps  of  fine  clothes,  antiques, 
jewels.  Where  was  it  I  read  such  an  interesting  article  about 
that?" 

"Not  in  Craft  I  hope?"  ventured  Wheeler. 

"No,  I  don't  think  so.    Harper  s  Bazaar,  I  believe." 

"Oh,  pshaw!"  exclaimed  Wheeler.  Harpers  Bazaar!  What 
rot!" 

"But  that's  just  what  you  ought  to  have.  Why  don't  you 
do  it — right?" 

"I  will,"  he  said. 

Eugene  went  to  the  piano  and  turned  over  a  pile  of  music. 
Again  he  came  across  the  unfamiliar,  the  strange,  the  obviously 
distinguished — Grieg's  "Arabian  Dance";  "Es  war  ein  Traum" 
by  Lassen;  "Elegie"  by  Massenet;  "Otidi"  by  Davydoff; 
"Nymphs  and  Shepherds"  by  Purcell — things  whose  very  titles 
smacked  of  color  and  beauty.  Gluck,  Sgambati,  Rossini,  Tschai- 
kowsky — the  Italian  Scarlatti — Eugene  marvelled  at  what  he 
did  not  know  about  music. 

"Play  something,"  he  pleaded,  and  with  a  smile  Miriam 
stepped  to  the  piano. 

"Do  you  know  'Es  war  ein  Traum'?"  she  inquired. 

"No,"  said  he. 

"That's  lovely,"  put  in  Wheeler.    "Sing  it!" 

Eugene  had  thought  that  possibly  she  sang,  but  he  was  not 
prepared  for  the  burst  of  color  that  came  with  her  voice.  It 
was  not  a  great  voice,  but  sweet  and  sympathetic,  equal  to  the 
tasks  she  set  herself.  She  selected  her  music  as  she  selected 
her  clothes — to  suit  her  capacity.  The  poetic,  sympathetic 
reminiscence  of  the  song  struck  home.  Eugene  was  delighted. 

"Oh,"  he  exclaimed,  bringing  his  chair  close  to  the  piano  and 
looking  into  her  face,  "you  sing  beautifully." 

She  gave  him  a  glittering  smile. 

"Now  I'll  sing  anything  you  want  for  you  if  you  go  on 
like  that." 

"I'm  crazy  about  music,"  he  said;  "I  don't  know  anything 
about  it,  but  I  like  this  sort  of  thing." 


THE    "GENIUS'  HI 

"You  like  the  really  good  things.  I  know.  So  do  I." 
He  felt  flattered  and  grateful.  They  went  through  "Otidi," 
"The  Nightingale,"  "Elegie,"  "The  Last  Spring"— music 
Eugene  had  never  heard  before.  But  he  knew  at  once  that  he 
was  listening  to  playing  which  represented  a  better  intelligence, 
a  keener  selective  judgment,  a  finer  artistic  impulse  than  anyone 
he  had  ever  known  had  possessed.  Ruby  played  and  Angela,  the 
latter  rather  well,  but  neither  had  ever  heard  of  these  things 
he  was  sure.  Ruby  had  only  liked  popular  things;  Angela  the 
standard  melodies — beautiful  but  familiar.  Here  was  someone 
who  ignored  popular  taste — was  in  advance  of  it.  In  all  her 
music  he  had  found  nothing  he  knew.  It  grew  on  him  as  a 
significant  fact.  He  wanted  to  be  nice  to  her,  to  have  her  like 
him.  So  he  drew  close  and  smiled  and  she  always  smiled  back. 
Like  the  others  she  liked  his  face,  his  mouth,  his  eyes,  his  hair. 
"He's  charming,"  she  thought,  when  he  eventually  left;  and 
his  impressron  of  her  was  of  a  woman  who  was  notably  and  sig- 
nificantly distinguished. 


CHAPTER   XXI 

BUT  Miriam  Finch's  family,  of  which  she  seemed  so  in- 
dependent, had  not  been  without  its  influence  on  her.  This 
family  was  of  Middle  West  origin,  and  did  not  understand  or 
sympathize  very  much  with  the  artistic  temperament.  Since  her 
sixteenth  year,  when  Miriam  had  first  begun  to  exhibit  a  definite 
striving  toward  the  artistic,  her  parents  had  guarded  her  jealously 
against  what  they  considered  the  corrupting  atmosphere  of  the 
art  world.  Her  mother  had  accompanied  her  from  Ohio  to 
New  York,  and  lived  with  her  while  she  studied  art  in  the  art 
school,  chaperoning  her  everywhere.  When  it  became  advisable, 
as  she  thought,  for  Miriam  to  go  abroad,  she  went  with  her. 
Miriam's  artistic  career  was  to  be  properly  supervised.  When 
she  lived  in  the  Latin  Quarter  in  Paris  her  mother  was  with 
her;  when  she  loitered  in  the  atmosphere  of  the  galleries  and 
palaces  in  Rome  it  was  writh  her  mother  at  her  side.  At  Pompeii 
and  Herculaneum — in  London  and  in  Berlin — her  mother,  an 
iron-willed  little  woman  at  forty-five  at  that  time,  was  with  her. 
She  was  convinced  that  she  knew  exactly  what  was  good  for  her 
daughter  and  had  more  or  less  made  the  girl  accept  her  theories. 
Later,  Miriam's  personal  judgment  began  to  diverge  slightly 
from  that  of  her  mother  and  then  trouble  began. 

It  was  vague  at  first,  hardly  a  definite,  tangible  thing  in 
the  daughter's  mind,  but  later  it  grew  to  be  a  definite  feeling 
that  her  life  was  being  cramped.  She  had  been  warned  off 
from  association  with  this  person  and  that;  had  been  shown  the 
pitfalls  that  surround  the  free,  untrammelled  life  of  the  art 
studio.  Marriage  with  the  average  artist  was  not  to  be  con- 
sidered. Modelling  from  the  nude,  particularly  the  nude  of 
a  man,  was  to  her  mother  at  first  most  distressing.  She  in- 
sisted on  being  present  and  for  a  long  time  her  daughter  thought 
that  was  all  right.  Finally  the  presence,  the  viewpoint,  the  in- 
tellectual insistence  of  her  mother,  became  too  irksome,  and  an 
open  break  followed.  It  was  one  of  those  family  tragedies 
which  almost  kill  conservative  parents.  Mrs.  Finch's  heart 
was  practically  broken. 

The  trouble  with  this  break  was  that  it  came  a  little  too 
late  for  Miriam's  happiness.  In  the  stress  of  this  insistent 
chaperonage  she  had  lost  her  youth — the  period  during  which 
she  felt  she  should  have  had  her  natural  freedom.  She  had 

142 


THE   "GENIUS'  H3 

lost  the  interest  of  several  men  who  in  her  nineteenth,  twentieth 
and  twenty-first  years  had  approached  her  longingly,  but  who 
could  not  stand  the  criticism  of  her  mother.  At  twenty-eight 
when  the  break  came  the  most  delightful  love  period  was  over 
and  she  felt  grieved  and  resentful. 

At  that  time  she  had  insisted  on  a  complete  and  radical  change 
for  herself.  She  had  managed  to  get,  through  one  art  dealer 
and  another,  orders  for  some  of  her  spirited  clay  figurines.  There 
was  a  dancing  girl,  a  visualization  of  one  of  the  moods  of 
Carmencita,  a  celebrated  dancer  of  the  period,  which  had  caught 
the  public  fancy — at  least  the  particular  art  dealer  who  was 
handling  her  work  for  her  had  managed  to  sell  some  eighteen 
replicas  of  it  at  $175  each.  Miss  Finch's  share  of  this  was 
$100,  each.  There  was  another  little  thing,  a  six-inch  bronze 
called  "Sleep,"  which  had  sold  some  twenty  replicas  at  $150 
each,  and  was  still  selling.  "The  Wind,"  a  figure  crouching  and 
huddling  as  if  from  cold,  was  also  selling.  It  looked  as  though 
she  might  be  able  to  make  from  three  to  four  thousand  dollars 
a  year  steadily. 

She  demanded  of  her  mother  at  this  time  the  right  to  a  private 
studio,  to  go  and  come  when  she  pleased,  to  go  about  alone 
wherever  she  wished,  to  have  men  and  women  come  to  her 
private  apartment,  and  be  entertained  by  her  in  her  own  manner. 
She  objected  to  supervision  in  any  form,  cast  aside  criticism 
and  declared  roundly  that  she  would  lead  her  own  life.  She 
realized  sadly  while  she  was  doing  it,  however,  that  the  best  was 
gone — that  she  had  not  had  the  wit  or  the  stamina  to  do  as 
she  pleased  at  the  time  she  most  wanted  to  do  so.  Now  she 
would  be  almost  automatically  conservative.  She  could  not 
help  it. 

Eugene  when  he  first  met  her  felt  something  of  this.  He 
felt  the  subtlety  of  her  temperament,  her  philosophic  con- 
clusions, what  might  be  called  her  emotional  disappointment.  She 
was  eager  for  life,  which  seemed  to  him  odd,  for  she  appeared 
to  have  so  much.  By  degrees  he  got  it  out  of  her,  for  they  came 
to  be  quite  friendly  and  then  he  understood  clearly  just  how 
things  wrere. 

By  the  end  of  three  months  and  before  Christina  Channing 
appeared,  Eugene  had  come  to  the  sanest,  cleanest  understanding 
with  Miss  Finch  that  he  had  yet  reached  with  any  woman.  He 
had  dropped  into  the  habit  of  calling  there  once  and  sometimes 
twice  a  week.  He  had  learned  to  understand  her  point  of  view, 
which  was  detachedly  aesthetic  and  rather  removed  from  the 
world  of  the  sensuous.  Her  ideal  of  a  lover  had  been  fixed 


144  THE    "GENIUS" 

to  a  certain  extent  by  statues  and  poems  of  Greek  youth — 
Hylas,  Adonis,  Perseus,  and  by  those  men  of  the  Middle  Ages 
painted  by  Millais,  Burne-Jones,  Dante  Gabriel  Rossetti  and 
Ford  Madox  Brown.  She  had  hoped  for  a  youth  with  a  classic 
outline  of  face,  distinction  of  form,  graciousness  of  demeanor 
and  an  appreciative  intellect.  He  must  be  manly  but  artistic. 
It  was  a  rather  high  ideal,  not  readily  capable  of  attainment 
by  a  woman  already  turned  thirty,  but  nevertheless  worth  dream- 
ing about. 

Although  she  had  surrounded  herself  with  talented  youth  as 
much  as  possible — both  young  men  and  young  women — she  had 
not  come  across  the  one.  There  had  been  a  number  of  times 
when,  for  a  very  little  while,  she  had  imagined  she  had  found 
him,  but  had  been  compelled  to  see  her  fancies  fail.  All  the 
youths  she  knew  had  been  inclined  to  fall  in  love  with  girls 
younger  than  themselves — some  to  the  interesting  maidens  she 
had  introduced  them  to.  It  is  hard  to  witness  an  ideal  turning 
from  yourself,  its  spiritual  counterpart,  and  fixing  itself  upon 
some  mere  fleshly  vision  of  beauty  which  a  few  years  will  cause 
to  fade.  Such  had  been  her  fate,  however,  and  she  was  at  times 
inclined  to  despair.  When  Eugene  appeared  she  had  almost 
concluded  that  love  was  not  for  her,  and  she  did  not  flatter 
herself  that  he  would  fall  in  love  with  her.  Nevertheless  she 
could  not  help  but  be  interested  in  him  and  look  at  times  with 
a  longing  eye  at  his  interesting  face  and  figure.  It  was  so 
obvious  that  if  he  loved  at  all  it  would  be  dramatically,  in  all 
probability,  beautifully. 

As  time  went  on  she  took  pains  to  be  agreeable  to  him. 
He  had,  as  it  were,  the  freedom  of  her  room.  She  knew  of 
exhibitions,  personalities,  movements — in  religion,  art,  science, 
government,  literature.  She  was  inclined  to  take  an  interest  in 
socialism,  and  believed  in  righting  the  wrongs  of  the  people. 
Eugene  thought  he  did,  but  he  was  so  keenly  interested  in  life 
as  a  spectacle  that  he  hadn't  as  much  time  to  sympathize  as  he 
thought  he  ought  to  have.  She  took  him  to  see  exhibitions,  and 
to  meet  people,  being  rather  proud  of  a  boy  with  so  much  talent ; 
and  she  was  pleased  to  find  that  he  was  so  generally  acceptable. 
People,  particularly  writers,  poets,  musicians — beginners  in  every 
field,  were  inclined  to  remember  him.  He  was  an  easy  talker, 
witty,  quick  to  make  himself  at  home  and  perfectly  natural.  He 
tried  to  be  accurate  in  his  judgments  of  things,  and  fair,  but  he 
was  young  and  subject  to  strong  prejudices.  He  appreciated  her 
friendship,  and  did  not  seek  to  make  their  relationship  more 
intimate.  He  knew  that  only  a  sincere  proposal  of  marriage 


THE    "GENIUS'  145 

could  have  won  her,  and  he  did  not  care  enough  for  her  for  that. 
He  felt  himself  bound  to  Angela  and,  curiously,  he  felt  Miriam's 
age  as  a  bar  between  them.  He  admired  her  tremendously  and 
was  learning  in  part  through  her  what  his  ideal  ought  to  be,  but 
he  was  not  drawn  sufficiently  to  want  to  make  love  to  her. 

But  in  Christina  Channing,  whom  he  met  shortly  afterward, 
he  found  a  woman  of  a  more  sensuous  and  lovable  type,  though 
hardly  less  artistic.  Christina  Channing  was  a  singer  by  pro- 
fession, living  also  in  New  York  with  her  mother,  but  not, 
as  Miss  Finch  had  been,  dominated  by  her  so  thoroughly,  al- 
though she  was  still  at  the  age  when  her  mother  could  and  did 
have  considerable  influence  with  her.  She  was  twenty-seven 
years  of  age  and  so  far,  had  not  yet  attained  the  eminence  which 
subsequently  was  hers,  though  she  was  full  of  that  buoyant  self- 
confidence  which  makes  for  eventual  triumph.  So  far  she 
had  studied  ardently  under  various  teachers,  had  had  several 
love  affairs,  none  serious  enough  to  win  her  away  from  her 
chosen  profession,  and  had  gone  through  the  various  experiences 
of  those  who  begin  ignorantly  to  do  something  in  art  and  eventu- 
ally reach  experience  and  understanding  of  how  the  world  is 
organized  and  what  they  will  have  to  do  to  succeed. 

Although  Miss  Channing's  artistic  sense  did  not  rise  to  that 
definite  artistic  expression  in  her  material  surroundings  which 
characterized  Miss  Finch's  studio  atmosphere,  it  went  much 
farther  in  its  expression  of  her  joy  in  life.  Her  voice,  a  rich 
contralto,  deep,  full,  colorful,  had  a  note  of  pathos  and  poignancy 
which  gave  a  touch  of  emotion  to  her  gayest  songs.  She  could 
play  well  enough  to  accompany  herself  with  delicacy  and  em- 
phasis. She  was  at  present  one  of  the  soloists  with  the  New 
York  Symphony  Orchestra,  with  the  privilege  of  accepting 
occasional  outside  engagements.  The  following  Fall  she  was 
preparing  to  make  a  final  dash  to  Germany  to  see  if  she  could 
not  get  an  engagement  with  a  notable  court  opera  company  and 
so  pave  the  way  for  a  New  York  success.  She  was  already 
quite  well  known  in  musical  circles  as  a  promising  operatic 
candidate  and  her  eventual  arrival  would  be  not  so  much  a 
question  of  talent  as  of  luck. 

While  these  two  women  fascinated  Eugene  for  the  time  being, 
his  feeling  for  Angela  continued  unchanged;  for  though  she 
suffered  in  an  intellectual  or  artistic  comparison,  he  felt  that  she 
was  richer  emotionally.  There  was  a  poignancy  in  her  love 
letters,  an  intensity  about  her  personal  feelings  when  in  his 
presence  which  moved  him  in  spite  of  himself — an  ache  went 
with  her  which  brought  a  memory  of  the  tales  of  Sappho  and 


146  THE    "GENIUS" 

Marguerite  Gautier.  It  occurred  to  him  now  that  if  he  flung 
her  aside  it  might  go  seriously  with  her.  He  did  not  actually 
think  of  doing  anything  of  the  sort,  but  he  was  realizing  that 
there  was  a  difference  between  her  and  intellectual  women 
like  Miriam  Finch.  Besides  that,  there  was  a  whole  constellation 
of  society  women  swimming  into  his  ken — women  whom  he  only 
knew,  as  yet,  through  the  newspapers  and  the  smart  weeklies 
like  Town  Topics  and  Vogue,  who  were  presenting  still  a  third 
order  of  perfection.  Vaguely  he  was  beginning  to  see  that  the 
world  was  immense  and  subtle,  and  that  there  were  many  things 
to  learn  about  women  that  he  had  never  dreamed  of. 

Christina  Channing  was  a  rival  of  Angela's  in  one  sense,  that 
of  bodily  beauty.  She  had  a  tall  perfectly  rounded  form,  a  lovely 
oval  face,  a  nut  brown  complexion  with  the  rosy  glow  of  health 
showing  in  cheeks  and  lips,  and  a  mass  of  blue  black  hair.  Her 
great  brown  eyes  were  lustrous  and  sympathetic. 

Eugene  met  her  through  the  good  offices  of  Shotmeyer,  who 
had  been  given  by  some  common  friend  in  Boston  a  letter  of 
introduction  to  her.  He  had  spoken  of  Eugene  as  being  a 
very  brilliant  )'oung  artist  and  his  friend,  and  remarked  that  he 
would  like  to  bring  him  up  some  evening  to  hear  her  sing. 
Miss  Channing  acquiesced,  for  she  had  seen  some  of  his  draw- 
ings and  was  struck  by  the  poetic  note  in  them.  Shotmeyer, 
vain  of  his  notable  acquaintances — who  in  fact  tolerated  him 
for  his  amusing  gossip — described  Miss  Channing's  voice  to 
Eugene  and  asked  him  if  he  did  not  want  to  call  on  her  some 
evening.  "Delighted,"  said  Eugene. 

The  appointment  was  made  and  together  they  went  to  Miss 
Channing's  suite  in  a  superior  Nineteenth  Street  boarding  house. 
Miss  Channing  received  them,  arrayed  in  a  smooth,  close  fitting 
dress  of  black  velvet,  touched  with  red.  Eugene  was  reminded 
of  the  first  costume  in  which  he  had  seen  Ruby.  He  was  daz- 
zled. As  for  her,  as  she  told  him  afterward,  she  was  conscious 
of  a  peculiar  illogical  perturbation. 

"When  I  put  on  my  ribbon  that  night/'  she  told  him,  "I  was 
going  to  put  on  a  dark  blue  silk  one  I  had  just  bought  and  then  I 
thought  'No,  he'll  like  me  better  in  a  red  one.'  Isn't  that  cu- 
rious? I  just  felt  as  though  you  were  going  to  like  me — as 
though  we  might  know  each  other  better.  That  young  man — 
what's  his  name — described  you  so  accurately."  It  was  months 
afterward  when  she  confessed  that. 

When  Eugene  entered  it  was  with  the  grand  air  he  had  ac- 
quired since  his  life  had  begun  to  broaden  in  the  East.  He  took 
his  relationship  with  talent,  particularly  female  talent,  seriously. 


THE  "GENIUS'  147 

He  stood  up  very  straight,  walked  with  a  noticeable  stride,  drove 
an  examining  glance  into  the  very  soul  of  the  person  he  was 
looking  at.  He  was  quick  to  get  impressions,  especially  of  talent. 
He  could  feel  ability  in  another.  When  he  looked  at  Miss 
Channing  he  felt  it  like  a  strong  wave — the  vibrating  wave 
of  an  intense  consciousness. 

She  greeted  him,  extending  a  soft  white  hand.  They  spoke 
of  how  they  had  heard  of  each  other.  Eugene  somehow  made 
her  feel  his  enthusiasm  for  her  art.  "Music  is  the  finer  thing," 
he  said,  when  she  spoke  of  his  own  gift. 

Christina's  dark  brown  eyes  swept  him  from  head  to  foot. 
He  was  like  his  pictures,  she  thought — and  as  good  to  look  at. 

He  was  introduced  to  her  mother.  They  sat  down,  talking, 
and  presently  Miss  Channing  sang — "Che  faro  senza  Euridice." 
Eugene  felt  as  if  she  were  singing  to  him.  Her  cheeks  were 
flushed  and  her  lips  red. 

Her  mother  remarked  after  she  had  finished,  "You're  in  splen- 
did voice  this  evening,  Christina." 

"I  feel  particularly  fit,"  she  replied. 

"A  wonderful  voice — it's  like  a  big  red  poppy  or  a  great  yel- 
low orchid!"  cried  Eugene. 

Christina  thrilled.  The  description  caught  her  fancy.  It 
seemed  true.  She  felt  something  of  that  in  the  sounds  to  which 
she  gave  utterance. 

"Please  sing  'Who  is  Sylvia,'  "  he  begged  a  little  later.  She 
complied  gladly. 

"That  was  written  for  you,"  he  said  softly  as  she  ceased,  for 
he  had  come  close  to  the  piano.  "You  image  Sylvia  for  me." 
Her  cheeks  colored  warmly. 

"Thanks,"  she  nodded,  and  her  eyes  spoke  too.  She  wel- 
comed his  daring  and  she  was  glad  to  let  him  know  it. 


CHAPTER   XXII 

THE  chief  trouble  with  his  present  situation,  and  with  the 
entrance  of  these  two  women  into  his  life,  and  it  had  begun 
to  be  a  serious  one  to  him,  was  that  he  was  not  making  money. 
He  had  been  able  to  earn  about  $1200  the  first  year;  the  second 
he  made  a  little  over  two  thousand,  and  this  third  year  he  was 
possibly  doing  a  little  better.  But  in  view  of  what  he  saw  around 
him  and  what  he  now  knew  of  life,  it  was  nothing.  New  York 
presented  a  spectacle  of  material  display  such  as  he  had  never 
known  existed.  The  carriages  on  Fifth  Avenue,  the  dinners  at 
the  great  hotels,  the  constant  talk  of  society  functions  in  the 
newspapers,  made  his  brain  dizzy.  He  was  inclined  to  idle  about 
the  streets,  to  watch  the  handsomely  dressed  crowds,  to  consider 
the  evidences  of  show  and  refinement  everywhere,  and  he  came 
to  the  conclusion  that  he  was  not  living  at  all,  but  existing.  Art 
as  he  had  first  dreamed  of  it,  art  had  seemed  not  only  a  road 
to  distinction  but  also  to  affluence.  Now,  as  he  studied  those 
about  him,  he  found  that  it  was  not  so.  Artists  were  never 
tremendously  rich,  he  learned.  He  remembered  reading  in  Bal- 
zac's story  "Cousin  Betty,"  of  a  certain  artist  of  great  distinction 
who  had  been  allowed  condescendingly  by  one  of  the  rich  families 
of  Paris  to  marry  a  daughter,  but  it  was  considered  a  great 
come  down  for  her.  He  had  hardly  been  able  to  credit  the  idea 
at  the  time,  so  exalted  was  his  notion  of  the  artist.  But  now 
he  was  beginning  to  see  that  it  represented  the  world's  treatment 
of  artists.  There  were  in  America  a  few  who  were  very  popu- 
lar— meretriciously  so  he  thought  in  certain  cases — who  were 
said  to  be  earning  from  ten  to  fifteen  thousand  a  year.  How  high 
would  that  place  them,  he  asked  himself,  in  that  world  of  real 
luxury  which  was  made  up  of  the  so-called  four  hundred — the 
people  of  immense  wealth  and  social  position.  He  had  read  in 
the  papers  that  it  took  from  fifteen  to  twenty-five  thousand  dol- 
lars a  year  to  clothe  a  debutante.  It  was  nothing  uncommon, 
he  heard,  for  a  man  to  spend  from  fifteen  to  twenty  dollars  on 
his  dinner  at  the  restaurant.  The  prices  he  heard  that  tailors 
demanded — that  dressmakers  commanded,  the  display  of  jewels 
and  expensive  garments  at  the  opera,  made  the  poor  little  in- 
come of  an  artist  look  like  nothing  at  all.  Miss  Finch  was 
constantly  telling  him  of  the  show  and  swagger  she  met  with 
in  her  circle  of  acquaintances,  for  her  tact  and  adaptability  had 

148 


THE    "GENIUS'  149 

gained  her  the  friendship  of  a  number  of  society  people.  Miss 
Channing,  when  he  came  to  know  her  better,  made  constant  ref- 
erences to  things  she  came  in  contact  with — great  singers  or  vio- 
linists paid  $1000  a  night,  or  the  tremendous  salaries  commanded 
by  the  successful  opera  stars.  He  began,  as  he  looked  at  his 
own  meagre  little  income,  to  feel  shabby  again,  and  run  down, 
much  as  he  had  during  those  first  days  in  Chicago.  Why,  art, 
outside  the  fame,  was  nothing.  It  did  not  make  for  real  living. 
It  made  for  a  kind  of  mental  blooming,  which  everybody  recog- 
nized, but  you  could  be  a  poor,  sick,  hungry,  shabby  genius — 
you  actually  could.  Look  at  Verlaine,  who  had  recently  died 
in  Paris. 

A  part  of  this  feeling  was  due  to  the  opening  of  a  golden  age 
of  luxury  in  New  York,  and  the  effect  the  reiterated  sight  of  it 
was  having  on  Eugene.  Huge  fortunes  had  been  amassed  in 
the  preceding  fifty  years  and  now  there  were  thousands  of  resi- 
dents in  the  great  new  city  who  were  worth  anything  from  one 
to  fifty  and  in  some  instances  a  hundred  million  dollars.  The 
metropolitan  area,  particularly  Manhattan  Island  above  Fifty- 
ninth  Street,  was  growing  like  a  weed.  Great  hotels  were  being 
erected  in  various  parts  of  the  so-called  "white  light"  district. 
There  was  beginning,  just  then,  the  first  organized  attempt  of 
capital  to  supply  a  new  need — the  modern  sumptuous,  eight,  ten 
and  twelve  story  apartment  house,  which  was  to  house  the  world 
of  newly  rich  middle  class  folk  who  were  pouring  into  New  York 
from  every  direction.  Money  was  being  made  in  the  West, 
the  South  and  the  North,  and  as  soon  as  those  who  were  mak- 
ing it  had  sufficient  to  permit  them  to  live  in  luxury  for  the  rest 
of  their  days  they  were  moving  East,  occupying  these  expensive 
apartments,  crowding  the  great  hotels,  patronizing  the  sumptuous 
restaurants,  giving  the  city  its  air  of  spendthrift  luxury.  All 
the  things  which  catered  to  showy  material  living  were  beginning 
to  flourish  tremendously,  art  and  curio  shops,  rug  shops,  deco- 
rative companies  dealing  with  the  old  and  the  new  in  hangings, 
furniture,  objects  of  art;  dealers  in  paintings,  jewelry  stores, 
china  and  glassware  houses — anything  and  everything  which  goes 
to  make  life  comfortable  and  brilliant.  Eugene,  as  he  strolled 
about  the  city,  saw  this,  felt  the  change,  realized  that  the  drift 
was  toward  greater  population,  greater  luxury,  greater  beauty. 
His  mind  was  full  of  the  necessity  of  living  now.  He  was  young 
now]  he  was  vigorous  now;  he  was  keen  now;  in  a  few  years 
he  might  not  be — seventy  years  was  the  allotted  span  and  twenty- 
five  of  his  had  already  gone.  How  would  it  be  if  he  never  came 
into  this  luxury,  was  never  allowed  to  enter  society,  was  never 


150  THE    "GENIUS' 

permitted  to  live  as  wealth  was  now  living!  The  thought  hurt 
him.  He  felt  an  eager  desire  to  tear  wealth  and  fame  from  the 
bosom  of  the  world.  Life  must  give  him  his  share.  If  it  did  not 
he  would  curse  it  to  his  dying  day.  So  he  felt  when  he  was  ap- 
proaching twenty-six. 

The  effect  of  Christina  Channing's  friendship  for  him  was 
particularly  to  emphasize  this.  She  was  not  so  much  older  than 
he,  was  possessed  of  very  much  the  same  temperament,  the  same 
hopes  and  aspirations,  and  she  discerned  almost  as  clearly  as  he 
did  the  current  of  events.  New  York  was  to  witness  a  golden 
age  of  luxury.  It  was  already  passing  into  it.  Those  who  rose 
to  distinction  in  any  field,  particularly  music  or  the  stage,  were 
likely  to  share  in  a  most  notable  spectacle  of  luxury.  Christina 
hoped  to.  She  was  sure  she  would.  After  a  few  conversations 
with  Eugene  she  was  inclined  to  feel  that  he  would.  He  was  so 
brilliant,  so  incisive. 

"You  have  such  a  way  with  you,"  she  said  the  second  time  he 
came.  "You  are  so  commanding.  You  make  me  think  you  can 
do  almost  anything  you  want  to." 

"Oh,  no,"  he  deprecated.  "Not  as  bad  as  that.  I  have  just 
as  much  trouble  as  anyone  getting  what  I  want." 

"Oh,  but  you  will  though.    You  have  ideas." 

It  did  not  take  these  two  long  to  reach  an  understanding. 
They  confided  to  each  other  their  individual  histories,  with  reser- 
vations, of  course,  at  first.  Christina  told  him  of  her  musical 
history,  beginning  at  Hagerstown,  Maryland,  and  he  went  back 
to  his  earliest  days  in  Alexandria.  They  discussed  the  differ- 
ences in  parental  control  to  which  they  had  been  subject.  He 
learned  of  her  father's  business,  which  was  that  of  oyster  farm- 
ing, and  confessed  on  his  part  to  being  the  son  of  a  sewing  ma- 
chine agent.  They  talked  of  small  town  influences,  early  il- 
lusions, the  different  things  they  had  tried  to  do.  She  had  sung 
in  the  local  Methodist  church,  had  once  thought  she  would  like 
to  be  a  milliner,  had  fallen  in  the  hands  of  a  teacher  who  tried 
to  get  her  to  marry  him  and  she  had  been  on  the  verge  of  con- 
senting. Something  happened — she  went  away  for  the  summer, 
or  something  of  that  sort,  and  changed  her  mind. 

After  an  evening  at  the  theatre  with  her,  a  late  supper  one 
night  and  a  third  call,  to  spend  a  quiet  evening  in  her  room, 
he  took  her  by  the  hand.  She  was  standing  by  the  piano  and 
he  was  looking  at  her  cheeks,  her  large  inquiring  eyes,  her  smooth 
rounded  neck  and  chin. 

"You  like  me,"  he  said  suddenly  a  propos  of  nothing  save  the 
mutual  attraction  that  was  always  running  strong  between  them. 


THE    "GENIUS"  151 

Without  hesitation  she  nodded  her  head,  though  the  bright 
blood  mounted  to  her  neck  and  cheeks. 

"You  are  so  lovely  to  me,"  he  went  on,  "that  words  are  of 
no  value.  I  can  paint  you.  Or  you  can  sing  me  what  you  are, 
but  mere  words  won't  show  it.  I  have  been  in  love  before,  but 
never  with  anyone  like  you." 

"Are  you  in  love?"  she  asked  naively. 

"What  is  this?"  he  asked  and  slipped  his  arms  about  her, 
drawing  her  close. 

She  turned  her  head  away,  leaving  her  rosy  cheek  near  his  lips. 
He  kissed  that,  then  her  mouth  and  her  neck.  He  held  her 
chin  and  looked  into  her  eyes. 

"Be  careful,"  she  said,  "mamma  may  come  in." 

"Hang  mamma!"  he  laughed. 

"She'll  hang  you  if  she  sees  you.  Mamma  would  never  sus- 
pect me  of  anything  like  this." 

"That  shows  how  little  mamma  knows  of  her  Christina,"  he 
answered. 

"She  knows  enough  at  that,"  she  confessed  gaily.  "Oh,  if  we 
were  only  up  in  the  mountains  now,"  she  added. 

"What  mountains,"  he  inquired  curiously. 

"The  Blue  Ridge.  We  have  a  bungalow  up  at  Florizel.  You 
must  come  up  when  we  go  there  next  summer." 

"Will  mamma  be  there?"  he  asked. 

"And  papa,"  she  laughed. 

"And  I  suppose  Cousin  Annie." 

"No,  brother  George  will  be." 

"Nix  for  the  bungalow,"  he  replied,  using  a  slang  word  that 
had  become  immensely  popular. 

"Oh,  but  I  know  all  the  country  round  there.  There  are  some 
lovely  walks  and  drives."  She  said  this  archly,  naively,  sug- 
gestively, her  bright  face  lit  with  an  intelligence  that  seemed 
perfection. 

"Well — such  being  the  case!"  he  smiled,  "and  meanwhile — " 

"Oh,  meanwhile  you  just  have  to  wait.  You  see  how  things 
are."  She  nodded  her  head  towards  an  inside  room  where  Mrs. 
Channing  was  lying  down  with  a  slight  headache.  "Mamma 
doesn't  leave  me  very  often." 

Eugene  did  not  know  exactly  how  to  take  Christina.  He  had 
never  encountered  this  attitude  before.  Her  directness,  in  con- 
nection with  so  much  talent,  such  real  ability,  rather  took  him 
by  surprise.  He  did  not  expect  it — did  not  think  she  would  con- 
fess affection  for  him;  did  not  know  just  what  she  meant  by 
speaking  in  the  way  she  did  of  the  bungalow  and  Florizel.  He 


152  THE    "GENIUS" 

was  flattered,  raised  in  his  own  self-esteem.  If  such  a  beautiful, 
talented  creature  as  this  could  confess  her  love  for  him,  what  a 
personage  he  must  be.  And  she  was  thinking  of  freer  condi- 
tions— just  what? 

He  did  not  want  to  press  the  matter  too  closely  then  and 
she  was  not  anxious  to  have  him  do  so — she  preferred  to  be 
enigmatic.  But  there  was  a  light  of  affection  and  admiration 
in  her  eye  which  made  him  very  proud  and  happy  with  things 
just  as  they  were. 

As  she  said,  there  was  little  chance  for  love-making  under 
conditions  then  existing.  Her  mother  was  with  her  most  of 
the  time.  Christina  invited  Eugene  to  come  and  hear  her  sing 
at  the  Philharmonic  Concerts;  so  once  in  a  great  ball-room  at 
the  Waldorf-Astoria  and  again  in  the  imposing  auditorium  of 
Carnegie  Hall  and  a  third  time  in  the  splendid  auditorium  of 
the  Arion  Society,  he  had  the  pleasure  of  seeing  her  walk  briskly 
to  the  footlights,  the  great  orchestra  waiting,  the  audience  ex- 
pectant, herself  arch,  assured — almost  defiant,  he  thought,  and 
so  beautiful.  When  the  great  house  thundered  its  applause  he 
was  basking  in  one  delicious  memory  of  her. 

"Last  night  she  had  her  arms  about  my  neck.  Tonight  when 
I  call  and  we  are  alone  she  will  kiss  me.  That  beautiful,  dis- 
tinguished creature  standing  there  bowing  and  smiling  loves  me 
and  no  one  else.  If  I  were  to  ask  her  she  would  marry  me — if 
I  were  in  a  position  and  had  the  means." 

"If  I  were  in  a  position — "  that  thought  cut  him,  for  he  knew 
that  he  was  not.  He  could  not  marry  her.  In  reality  she  would 
not  have  him  knowing  how  little  he  made — or  would  she?  He 
wondered. 


CHAPTER    XXIII 

TOWARDS  the  end  of  spring  Eugene  concluded  he  would 
rather  go  up  in  the  mountains  near  Christina's  bungalow 
this  summer,  than  back  to  see  Angela.  The  memory  of  that 
precious  creature  was,  under  the  stress  and  excitement  of  metro- 
politan life,  becoming  a  little  tarnished.  His  recollections  of  her 
were  as  delightful  as  ever,  as  redolent  of  beauty,  but  he  was  be- 
ginning to  wronder.  The  smart  crowd  in  New  York  was  com- 
posed of  a  different  type.  Angela  was  sweet  and  lovely,  but 
would  she  fit  in? 

Meanwhile  Miriam  Finch  with  her  subtle  eclecticism  con- 
tinued her  education  of  Eugene.  She  was  as  good  as  a  school. 
He  would  sit  and  listen  to  her  descriptions  of  plays,  her  apprecia- 
tion of  books,  hej  summing  up  of  current  philosophies,  and  he 
would  almost  feel  himself  growing.  She  knew  so  many  people, 
could  tell  him  where  to  go  to  see  just  such  and  such  an  impor- 
tant thing.  All  the  startling  personalities,  the  worth  while 
preachers,  the  new  actors,  somehow  she  knew  all  about  them. 

"Now,  Eugene,"  she  would  exclaim  on  seeing  him,  "you  posi- 
tively must  go  and  see  Haydon  Boyd  in  'The  Signet/  "  or — 
"see  Elmina  Deming  in  her  new  dances,"  or — "look  at  the  pic- 
tures of  Winslow  Homer  that  are  being  shown  at  Knoedler's." 

She  would  explain  with  exactness  why  she  wanted  him  to 
see  them,  what  she  thought  they  would  do  for  him.  She  frankly 
confessed  to  him  that  she  considered  him  a  genius  and  always 
insisted  on  knowing  what  new  thing  he  was  doing.  When  any 
work  of  his  appeared  and  she  liked  it  she  was  swift  to  tell  him. 
He  almost  felt  as  if  he  owned  her  room  and  herself,  as  if  all 
that  she  was — her  ideas,  her  friends,  her  experiences — belonged 
to  him.  He  could  go  and  draw  on  them  by  sitting  at  her  feet 
or  going  with  her  somewhere.  When  spring  came  she  liked  to 
walk  with  him,  to  listen  to  his  comments  on  nature  and  life. 

"That's  splendid!"  she  would  exclaim.  "Now,  why  don't 
you  write  that?"  or  "why  don't  you  paint  that?" 

He  showed  her  some  of  his  poems  once  and  she  had  made  copies 
of  them  and  pasted  them  in  a  book  of  what  she  called  exceptional 
things.  So  he  was  coddled  by  her. 

In  another  way  Christina  was  equally  nice.  She  was  fond  of 
telling  Eugene  how  much  she  thought  of  him,  how  nice  she 
thought  he  was.  "You're  so  big  and  smarty,"  she  said  to  him 

153 


154  THE    '"GENIUS" 

once,  affectionately,  pinioning  his  arms  and  looking  into  his 
eyes.  "I  like  the  way  you  part  your  hair,  too!  You're  kind  o' 
like  an  artist  ought  to  be!" 

"That's  the  way  to  spoil  me,"  he  replied.  "Let  me  tell  you 
how  nice  you  are.  Want  to  know  how  nice  you  are?" 

"Uh-uh,"  she  smiled,  shaking  her  head  to  mean  "no." 

"Wait  till  we  get  to  the  mountains.  I'll  tell  you."  He 
sealed  her  lips  with  his,  holding  her  until  her  breath  was  almost 
gone. 

"Oh,"  she  exclaimed ;  "you're  terrible.    You're  like  steel." 

"And  you're  like  a  big  red  rose.    Kiss  me!" 

From  Christina  he  learned  all  about  the  musical  world  and 
musical  personalities.  He  gained  an  insight  into  the  different 
forms  of  music,  operatic,  symphonic,  instrumental.  He  learned 
of  the  different  forms  of  composition,  the  terminology,  the  mys- 
tery of  the  vocal  cords,  the  methods  of  training.  He  learned 
of  the  jealousies  within  the  profession,  and  what  the  best  musical 
authorities  thought  of  such  and  such  composers,  or  singers.  He 
learned  how  difficult  it  was  to  gain  a  place  in  the  operatic  world, 
how  bitterly  singers  fought  each  other,  how  quick  the  public 
was  to  desert  a  fading  star.  Christina  took  it  all  so  uncon- 
cernedly that  he  almost  loved  her  for  her  courage.  She  was  so 
wise  and  so  good  natured. 

"You  have  to  give  up  a  lot  of  things  to  be  a  good  artist,"  she 
said  to  Eugene  one  day.  "You  can't  have  the  ordinary  life,  and 
art  too." 

"Just  what  do  you  mean,  Chrissy?"  he  asked,  petting  her 
hand,  for  they  were  alone  together. 

"Why,  you  can't  get  married  very  well  and  have  children,  and 
you  can't  do  much  in  a  social  way.  Oh,  I  know  they  do  get 
married,  but  sometimes  I  think  it  is  a  mistake.  Most  of  the 
singers  I  know  don't  do  so  very  \vell  tied  down  by  marriage." 

"Don't  you  intend  to  get  married?"  asked  Eugene  curiously. 

"I  don't  know,"  she  replied,  realizing  what  he  was  driving  at. 
"I'd  want  to  think  about  that.  A  woman  artist  is  in  a  d — 
of  a  position  anyway,"  using  the  letter  d  only  to  indicate  the 
wwd  "devil."  "She  has  so  many  things  to  think  about." 

"For  instance?" 

"Oh,  what  people  think  and  her  family  think,  and  I  don't 
know  what  all.  They  ought  to  get  a  new  sex  for  artists — like 
they  have  for  worker  bees." 

Eugene  smiled.  He  knew  what  she  was  driving  at.  But  he 
did  not  know  how  long  she  had  been  debating  the  problem  of 
her  virginity  as  conflicting  with  her  love  of  distinction  in  art. 


THE  "GENIUS'1  iss 

She  was  nearly  sure  she  did  not  want  to  complicate  her  art  life 
with  marriage.  She  was  almost  positive  that  success  on  the  oper- 
atic stage — particularly  the  great  opportunity  for  the  beginner 
abroad — was  complicated  with  some  liaison.  Some  escaped,  but 
it  was  not  many.  She  was  wondering  in  her  own  mind  whether 
she  owed  it  to  current  morality  to  remain  absolutely  pure.  It 
was  assumed  generally  that  girls  should  remain  virtuous  and 
marry,  but  this  did  not  necessarily  apply  to  her — should  it  apply 
to  the  artistic  temperament?  Her  mother  and  her  family 
troubled  her.  She  was  virtuous,  but  youth  and  desire  had  given 
her  some  bitter  moments.  And  here  was  Eugene  to  emphasize  it. 

"It  is  a  difficult  problem,"  he  said  sympathetically,  wondering 
what  she  would  eventually  do.  He  felt  keenly  that  her  attitude 
in  regard  to  marriage  affected  his  relationship  to  her.  Was 
she  wedded  to  her  art  at  the  expense  of  love? 

"It's  a  big  problem,"  she  said  and  went  to  the  piano  to 
sing. 

He  half  suspected  for  a  little  while  after  this  that  she  might 
be  contemplating  some  radical  step — what,  he  did  not  care  to 
say  to  himself,  but  he  was  intensely  interested  in  her  problem. 
This  peculiar  freedom  of  thought  astonished  him — broadened  his 
horizon.  He  wondered  what  his  sister  Myrtle  would  think 
of  a  girl  discussing  marriage  in  this  way — the  to  be  or  not  to  be 
of  it — what  Sylvia?  He  wondered  if  many  girls  did  that. 
Most  of  the  women  he  had  known  seemed  to  think  more 
logically  along  these  lines  than  he  did.  He  remembered  asking 
Ruby  once  whether  she  didn't  think  illicit  love  was  wrong  and 
hearing  her  reply,  "No.  Some  people  thought  it  was  wrong, 
but  that  didn't  make  it  so  to  her."  Here  was  another  girl 
with  another  theory. 

They  talked  more  of  love,  and  he  wondered  why  she  wanted 
him  to  come  up  to  Florizel  in  the  summer.  She  could  not  be 
thinking — no,  she  was  too  conservative.  He  began  to  suspect, 
though,  that  she  would  not  marry  him — would  not  marry  anyone 
at  present.  She  merely  wanted  to  be  loved  for  awhile,  no  doubt. 

May  came  and  with  it  the  end  of  Christina's  concert  work 
and  voice  study  so  far  as  New  York  was  concerned.  She  had 
been  in  and  out  of  the  city  all  the  winter — to  Pittsburgh, 
Buffalo,  Chicago,  St.  Paul  and  now  after  a  winter's  hard  work 
retired  to  Hagerstown  with  her  mother  for  a  few  weeks  prior 
to  leaving  for  Florizel. 

"You  ought  to  come  down  here,"  she  wrote  to  Eugene  early  in 
June.  "There  is  a  sickle  moon  that  shines  in  my  garden 
and  the  roses  are  in  bloom.  Oh,  the  odors  are  so  sweet,  and 


156  THE    ''GENIUS'5 

the  dew!  Some  of  our  windows  open  out  level  with  the  grass 
and  I  sing!  I  sing!!  I  sing!!!" 

He  had  a  notion  to  run  down  but  restrained  himself,  for  she 
told  him  that  they  were  leaving  in  two  weeks  for  the  moun- 
tains. He  had  a  set  of  drawings  to  complete  for  a  magazine 
for  which  they  were  in  a  hurry.  So  he  decided  to  wait  till 
that  was  done. 

In  late  June  he  went  up  to  the  Blue  Ridge,  in  Southern  Penn- 
sylvania, where  Florizel  was  situated.  He  thought  at  first 
he  would  be  invited  to  stay  at  the  Channing  bungalow,  but 
Christina  warned  him  that  it  would  be  safer  and  better  for  him 
to  stay  at  one  of  the  adjoining  hotels.  There  were  several 
on  the  slope  of  adjacent  hills  at  prices  ranging  from  five  to 
ten  dollars  a  day.  Though  this  was  high  for  Eugene  he 
decided  to  go.  He  wanted  to  be  with  this  marvellous  creature — 
to  see  just  what  she  did  mean  by  wishing  they  were  in  the 
mountains  together. 

He  had  saved  some  eight  hundred  dollars,  which  was  in  a 
savings  bank  and  he  withdrew  three  hundred  for  his  little 
outing.  He  took  Christina  a  very  handsomely  bound  copy  of 
Villon,  of  whom  she  was  fond,  and  several  volumes  of  new  verse. 
Most  of  these,  chosen  according  to  his  most  recent  mood,  were 
sad  in  their  poetic  texture;  they  all  preached  the  nothingness 
of  life,  its  sadness,  albeit  the  perfection  of  its  beauty. 

At  this  time  Eugene  had  quite  reached  the  conclusion  that 
there  was  no  hereafter — there  was  nothing  save  blind,  dark 
force  moving  aimlessly — where  formerly  he  had  believed  vaguely 
in  a  heaven  and  had  speculated  as  to  a  possible  hell.  His 
reading  had  led  him  through  some  main  roads  and  some  odd 
by-paths  of  logic  and  philosophy.  He  was  an  omnivorous  reader 
now  and  a  fairly  logical  thinker.  He  had  already  tackled 
Spencer's  "First  Principles,"  which  had  literally  torn  him  up 
by  the  roots  and  set  him  adrift  and  from  that  had  gone  back 
to  Marcus  Aurelius,  Epictetus,  Spinoza  and  Schopenhauer — men 
who  ripped  out  all  his  private  theories  and  made  him  wonder 
what  life  really  was.  He  had  walked  the  streets  for  a  long 
time  after  reading  some  of  these  things,  speculating  on  the  play 
of  forces,  the  decay  of  matter,  the  fact  that  thought-forms  had 
no  more  stability  than  cloud-forms.  Philosophies  came  and 
went,  governments  came  and  went,  races  arose  and  disappeared. 
He  walked  into  the  great  natural  history  museum  of  New 
York  once  to  discover  enormous  skeletons  of  prehistoric  animals — 
things  said  to  have  lived  two,  three,  five  millions  of  years 
before  his  day  and  he  marvelled  at  the  forces  which  produced 


THE    "GENIUS'  157 

them,  the  indifference,  apparently,  with  which  they  had  been 
allowed  to  die.  Nature  seemed  lavish  of  its  types  and  utterly 
indifferent  to  the  persistence  of  anything.  He  came  to  the 
conclusion  that  he  was  nothing,  a  mere  shell,  a  sound,  a  leaf 
which  had  no  general  significance,  and  for  the  time  being  it 
almost  broke  his  heart.  It  tended  to  smash  his  egotism,  to 
tear  away  his  intellectual  pride.  He  wandered  about  dazed, 
hurt,  moody,  like  a  lost  child.  But  he  was  thinking  persistently. 

Then  came  Darwin,  Huxley,  Tyndall,  Lubbock — a  whole 
string  of  British  thinkers  who  fortified  the  original  conclusions 
of  the  others,  but  showed  him  a  beauty,  a  formality,  a  lavishness 
of  form  and  idea  in  nature's  methods  which  fairly  transfixed 
him.  He  was  still  reading — poets,  naturalists,  essayists,  but  he 
was  still  gloomy.  Life  was  nothing  save  dark  forces  moving  aim- 
lessly. 

The  manner  in  which  he  applied  this  thinking  to  his  life 
was  characteristic  and  individual.  To  think  that  beauty  should 
blossom  for  a  little  while  and  disappear  for  ever  seemed  sad. 
To  think  that  his  life  should  endure  but  for  seventy  years  and 
then  be  no  more  was  terrible.  He  and  Angela  were  chance 
acquaintances — chemical  affinities — never  to  meet  again  in  all 
time.  He  and  Christina,  he  and  Ruby — he  and  anyone — a  few 
bright  hours  were  all  they  could  have  together,  and  then  would 
come  the  great  silence,  dissolution,  and  he  would  never  be 
anymore.  It  hurt  him  to  think  of  this,  but  it  made  him  all 
the  more  eager  to  live,  to  be  loved  while  he  was  here.  If 
he  could  only  have  a  lovely  girl's  arms  to  shut  him  in  safely 
always  1 

It  was  while  he  was  in  this  mood  that  he  reached  Florizel 
after  a  long  night's  ride,  and  Christina  who  was  a  good  deal 
of  a  philosopher  and  thinker  herself  at  times  was  quick  to 
notice  it.  She  was  waiting  at  the  depot  with  a  dainty  little  trap 
of  her  own  to  take  him  for  a  drive. 

The  trap  rolled  out  along  the  soft,  yellow,  dusty  roads.  The 
mountain  dew  was  still  in  the  earth  though  and  the  dust  was 
heavy  with  damp  and  not  flying.  Green  branches  of  trees  hung 
low  over  them,  charming  vistas  came  into  view  at  every  turn. 
Eugene  kissed  her,  for  there  was  no  one  to  see,  twisting  her  head 
to  kiss  her  lips  at  leisure. 

"It's  a  blessed  thing  this  horse  is  tame  or  we'd  be  in  for 
some  accident.  What  makes  you  so  moody?"  she  said. 

"I'm  not  moody — or  am  I?  I've  been  thinking  a  lot  of 
things  of  late — of  you  principally." 

"Do  I  make  you  sad?" 


158  THE   "GENIUS'1 

"From  one  point  of  view,  yes." 

"And  what  is  that,  sir?"  she  asked  with  an  assumption  of 
severity. 

"You  are  so  beautiful,  so  wonderful,  and  life  is  so  short." 

"You  have  only  fifty  years  to  love  me  in,"  she  laughed, 
calculating  his  age.  "Oh,  Eugene,  what  a  boy  you  are! — Wait 
a  minute,"  she  added  after  a  pause,  drawing  the  horse  to  a 
stop  under  some  trees.  "Hold  these,"  she  said,  offering  him 
the  reins.  He  took  them  and  she  put  her  arms  about  his  neck. 
"Now,  you  silly,"  she  exclaimed,  "I  love  you,  love  you,  love 
you!  There  was  never  anyone  quite  like  you.  Will  that  help 
you?"  she  smiled  into  his  eyes. 

"Yes,"  he  answered,  "but  it  isn't  enough.  Seventy  years 
isn't  enough.  Eternity  isn't  enough  of  life  as  it  is  now." 

"As  it  is  now,"  she  echoed  and  then  took  the  reins,  for  she 
felt  what  he  felt,  the  need  of  persistent  youth  and  persistent 
beauty  to  keep  it  as  it  should  be,  and  these  things  would  not 
stay. 


CHAPTER   XXIV 

/TAHE  days  spent  in  the  mountains  were  seventeen  exactly, 
A  and  during  that  time  with  Christina,  Eugene  reached  a 
curious  exaltation  of  spirit  different  from  anything  he  had 
experienced  before.  In  the  first  place  he  had  never  known  a 
girl  like  Christina,  so  beautiful,  so  perfect  physically,  so  in- 
cisive mentally,  so  full  of  a  fine  artistic  perception.  She  was 
so  quick  to  perceive  exactly  what  he  meant.  She  was  so  sug- 
gestive to  him  in  her  own  thoughts  and  feelings.  The  mysteries 
of  life  employed  her  mind  quite  as  fully  as  they  did  his.  She 
thought  much  of  the  subtlety  of  the  human  body,  of  its  mysterious 
emotions,  of  its  conscious  and  subconscious  activities  and  relation- 
ships. The  passions,  the  desires,  the  necessities  of  life,  were 
as  a  fine  tapestry  for  her  mind  to  contemplate.  She  had  no 
time  to  sit  down  and  formulate  her  thoughts;  she  did  not  want 
to  write — but  she  worked  out  through  her  emotions  and  through 
her  singing  the  beautiful  and  pathetic  things  she  felt.  And 
she  could  talk  in  a  fine,  poetic  melancholy  vein  on  occasion, 
though  there  was  so  much  courage  and  strength  in  her  young 
blood  that  she  was  not  afraid  of  any  phase  of  life  or  what  nature 
might  do  with  the  little  substance  which  she  called  herself, 
when  it  should  dissolve.  "Time  and  change  happeneth  to  us 
all,"  she  would  quote  to  Eugene  and  he  would  gravely  nod 
his  head. 

The  hotel  where  he  stopped  was  more  pretentious  than  any 
he  had  been  previously  acquainted  with.  He  had  never  had 
so  much  money  in  his  life  before,  nor  had  he  ever  felt  called 
upon  to  spend  it  lavishly.  The  room  he  took  was — because 
of  what  Christina  might  think — one  of  the  best.  He  took 
Christina's  suggestion  and  invited  her,  her  mother  and  her 
brother  to  dinner  on  several  occasions;  the  remainder  of  the 
family  had  not  arrived  yet.  In  return  he  was  invited  to 
breakfast,  to  lunch  and  dinner  at  the  bungalow. 

Christina  showed  on  his  arrival  that  she  had  planned  to  be 
with  him  alone  as  much  as  possible,  for  she  suggested  that  they 
make  expeditions  to  High  Hill,  to  Bold  Face,  and  The  Chimney 
— three  surrounding  mountains.  She  knew  of  good  hotels  at 
seven,  ten,  fifteen  miles  distance  to  which  they  could  go  by 
train,  or  else  they  drive  and  return  by  moonlight.  She  had 
selected  two  or  three  secluded  spots  in  thickets  and  groves  where 

159 


160  THE    "GENIUS" 

the  trees  gave  way  to  little  open  spaces  of  grass,  and  in  these 
they  would  string  a  hammock,  scatter  their  books  of  verse  about 
and  sit  down  to  enjoy  the  delights  of  talk  and  love-making. 

Under  the  influence  of  this  companionship,  under  cloudless 
skies  and  in  the  heart  of  the  June  weather,  Christina  finally 
yielded  to  an  arrangement  which  brought  Eugene  into  a  rela- 
tionship which  he  had  never  dreamed  possible  with  her.  They 
had  progressed  by  degrees  through  all  the  subtleties  of  courtship. 
They  had  come  to  discuss  the  nature  of  passion  and  emotion, 
and  had  swept  aside  as  negligible  the  conviction  that  there 
was  any  inherent  evil  in  the  most  intimate  relationship.  At 
last  Christina  said  frankly: 

"I  don't  want  to  be  married.  It  isn't  for  me — not  until  I've 
thoroughly  succeeded,  anyhow.  I'd  rather  wait — If  I  could 
just  have  you  and  singleness  too." 

"Why  do  you  want  to  yield  yourself  to  me?"  Eugene  asked 
curiously. 

"I  don't  know  that  I  exactly  want  to.  I  could  do  with 
just  your  love — if  you  were  satisfied.  It's  you  that  I  want  to 
make  happy.  I  want  to  give  you  anything  you  want." 

"Curious  girl,"  observed  her  lover,  smoothing  her  high  fore- 
head with  his  hand.  "I  don't  understand  you,  Christina.  I 
don't  know  how  your  mind  works.  Why  should  you?  You 
have  everything  to  lose  if  worst  came  to  worst." 

"Oh,   no,"   she  smiled.     "I'd  marry   you   then." 

"But  to  do  this  out  of  hand,  because  you  love  me,  because  you 
want  me  to  be  happy !"  he  paused. 

"I  don't  understand  it  either,  honey  boy,"  she  offered,  "I 
just  do." 

"But  why,  if  you  are  willing  to  do  this,  you  wouldn't  prefer 
to  live  with  me,  is  what  I  don't  understand." 

She  took  his  face  between  her  hands.  "I  think  I  understand 
you  better  than  you  do  yourself.  I  don't  think  you'd  be  happy 
married.  You  might  not  always  love  me.  I  might  not  always 
love  you.  You  might  come  to  regret.  If  we  could  be  happy 
now  you  might  reach  the  point  where  you  wouldn't  care 
any  more.  Then  you  see  I  wouldn't  be  remorseful  thinking  that 
we  had  never  known  happiness." 

"What  logic!"  he  exclaimed.  "Do  you  mean  to  say  you 
wouldn't  care  any  more?" 

"Oh,  I'd  care,  but  not  in  the  same  way.  Don't  you  see, 
Eugene,  I  would  have  the  satisfaction  of  knowing  that  even 
if  we  did  separate  you  had  had  the  best  of  me." 

It  seemed  astounding  to  Eugene  that  she  should  talk  in  this 


THE    "GENIUS'  161 

way — reason  this  way.  What  a  curious,  sacrificial,  fatalistic 
turn  of  mind.  Could  a  young,  beautiful,  talented  girl  really  be 
like  this?  Would  anybody  on  earth  really  believe  it  if  they 
knew?  He  looked  at  her  and  shook  his  head  sorrowfully. 

"To  think  that  the  quintessence  of  life  should  not  stay  with 
us  always."  He  sighed. 

"No,  honey  boy,"  she  replied,  "you  want  too  much.  You 
think  you  want  it  to  stay,  but  you  don't.  You  want  it  to  go. 
You  wouldn't  be  satisfied  to  live  with  me  always,  I  know  it. 
Take  what  the  gods  provide  and  have  no  regrets.  Refuse  to 
think;  you  can,  you  know." 

Eugene  gathered  her  up  in  his  arms.  He  kissed  her  over  and 
over,  forgetting  in  her  embrace  all  the  loves  he  had  ever 
known.  She  yielded  herself  to  him  gladly,  joyously,  telling  him 
over  and  over  that  it  made  her  happy. 

"If  you  could  only  see  how  nice  you  are  to  me  you  wouldn't 
wonder,"  she  explained. 

He  concluded  she  was  the  most  wonderful  being  he  had  ever 
known.  No  woman  had  ever  revealed  herself  to  him  so  un- 
selfishly in  love.  No  woman  he  had  ever  known  appeared  to 
have  the  courage  and  the  insight  to  go  thus  simply  and  directly 
to  what  she  desired.  To  hear  an  artist  of  her  power,  a  girl 
of  her  beauty,  discussing  calmly  whether  she  should  sacrifice 
her  virtue  to  love ;  whether  marriage  in  the  customary  form  was 
good  for  her  art;  whether  she  should  take  him  now  when  they 
were  young  or  bow  to  the  conventions  and  let  youth  pass, 
was  enough  to  shock  his  still  trammelled  soul.  For  after  all, 
and  despite  his  desire  for  personal  freedom,  his  intellectual  doubts 
and  mental  exceptions,  he  still  had  a  profound  reverence  for  a 
home  such  as  that  maintained  by  Jotham  Blue  and  his  wife, 
and  for  its  results  in  the  form  of  normal,  healthy,  dutiful  chil- 
dren. Nature  had  no  doubt  attained  to  this  standard  through  a 
long  series  of  difficulties  and  experiments,  and  she  would  not 
readily  relinquish  it.  Was  it  really  necessary  to  abandon  it 
entirely  ?  Did  he  want  to  see  a  world  in  which  a  woman  would 
take  him  for  a  little  while  as  Christina  was  doing  now,  and 
then  leave  him?  His  experience  here  was  making  him  think, 
throwing  his  theories  and  ideas  up  in  the  air,  making  a  mess 
of  all  the  notions  he  had  ever  formed  about  things.  He  racked 
his  brain  over  the  intricacies  of  sex  and  life,  sitting  on  the 
great  verandas  of  the  hotel  and  wondering  over  and  over  just 
what  the  answer  was,  and  why  he  could  not  like  other  men  be 
faithful  to  one  woman  and  be  happy.  He  wondered  whether 
this  was  really  so,  and  whether  he  could  not.  It  seemed  to 


1 62  THE    "GENIUS" 

him  then  that  he  might.  He  knew  that  he  did  not  under- 
stand himself  very  clearly;  that  he  had  no  grasp  on  himself  at 
all  as  yet — his  tendencies,  his  possibilities. 

These  days,  under  such  halcyon  conditions,  made  a  profound 
impression  on  him.  He  was  struck  with  the  perfection  life  could 
reach  at  odd  moments.  These  great  quiet  hills,  so  uniform  in 
their  roundness,  so  green,  so  peaceful,  rested  his  soul.  He 
and  Christina  climbed,  one  day,  two  thousand  feet  to  a  ledge 
which  jutted  out  over  a  valley  and  commanded  what  seemed 
to  him  the  kingdoms  and  the  powers  of  the  earth — vast  stretches 
of  green  land  and  subdivided  fields,  little  cottage  settlements 
and  towns,  great  hills  that  stood  up  like  friendly  brothers  to 
this  one  in  the  distance. 

"See  that  man  down  in  that  yard/'  said  Christina,  pointing 
to  a  speck  of  a  being  chopping  wood  in  a  front  space  serving  as 
a  garden  to  a  country  cottage  fully  a  mile  distant. 

"Where?"  asked  Eugene. 

"See  where  that  red  barn  is,  just  this  side  of  that  clump  of 
trees? — don't  you  see?  there,  where  the  cows  are  in  that  field." 

"I  don't  see  any  cows." 

"Oh,  Eugene,  what's  the  matter  with  your  eyes?" 

"Oh,  now  I  see,"  he  replied,  squeezing  her  fingers.  "He  looks 
like  a  cockroach,  doesn't  he?" 

"Yes,"  she  laughed. 

"How  wide  the  earth  is  and  how  small  we  are.  Now  think 
of  that  speck  with  all  his  hopes  and  ambitions — all  the  machinery 
of  his  brain  and  nerves  and  tell  me  whether  any  God  can  care. 
How  can  He,  Christina?" 

"He  can't  care  for  any  one  particular  speck  much,  sweet. 
He  might  care  for  the  idea  of  man  or  a  race  of  men  as  a 
whole.  Still,  I'm  not  sure,  honey.  All  I  know  is  that  I'm 
happy  now." 

"And  I,"  he  echoed. 

Still  they  dug  at  this  problem,  the  question  of  the  origin  of 
life — its  why.  The  tremendous  and  wearisome  age  of  the 
earth;  the  veritable  storms  of  birth  and  death  that  seemed  to 
have  raged  at  different  periods,  held  them  in  discussion. 

"We  can't  solve  it,  Eugenio  mio,"  she  laughed.  "We  might 
as  well  go  home.  Poor,  dear  mamma  will  be  wondering  where 
her  Christina  is.  You  know  I  think  she  suspects  that  I'm 
falling  in  love  with  you.  She  doesn't  care  how  many  men  fall 
in  love  with  me,  but  if  I  show  the  least  sign  of  a  strong  pref- 
erence she  begins  to  worry." 

"Have  there  been  many  preferences?"  he  inquired. 


THE    "'GENIUS"  163 

"No,  but  don't  ask.  What  difference  does  it  make?  Oh, 
Eugene,  what  difference  does  it  make?  I  love  you  now." 

"I  don't  know  what  difference  it  makes,"  he  replied,  "only 
there  is  an  ache  that  goes  with  the  thought  of  previous  ex- 
perience. I  can't  tell  you  why  it  is.  It  just  is." 

She  looked  thoughtfully  away. 

"Anyhow,  no  man  ever  was  to  me  before  what  you  have  been. 
Isn't  that  enough?  Doesn't  that  speak?" 

"Yes,  yes,  sweet,  it  does.  Oh,  yes  it  does.  Forgive  me. 
I  won't  grieve  any  more." 

"Don't,  please,"  she  said,  "you  hurt  me  as  much  as  you  hurt 
yourself." 

There  were  evenings  when  he  sat  on  some  one  of  the  great 
verandas  and  watched  them  trim  and  string  the  interspaces  be- 
tween the  columns  with  soft,  glowing,  Chinese  lanterns,  prepara- 
tory to  the  evening's  dancing.  He  loved  to  see  the  girls  and  men 
of  the  summer  colony  arrive,  the  former  treading  the  soft 
grass  in  filmy  white  gowns  and  white  slippers,  the  latter  in 
white  ducks  and  flannels,  gaily  chatting  as  they  came.  Christina 
would  come  to  these  affairs  with  her  mother  and  brother,  beauti- 
fully clad  in  white  linen  or  lawns  and  laces,  and  he  would  be 
beside  himself  with  chagrin  that  he  had  not  practised  dancing 
to  the  perfection  of  the  art.  He  could  dance  now,  but  not 
like  her  brother  or  scores  of  men  he  saw  upon  the  waxen 
floor.  It  hurt  him.  At  times  he  would  sit  all  alone  after  his 
splendid  evenings  with  his  love,  dreaming  of  the  beauty  of  it  all. 
The  stars  would  be  as  a  great  wealth  of  diamond  seed  flung 
from  the  lavish  hand  of  an  aimless  sower.  The  hills  would 
loom  dark  and  tall.  There  was  peace  and  quiet  everywhere. 

"Why  may  not  life  be  always  like  this?"  he  would  ask,  and 
then  he  would  answer  himself  out  of  his  philosophy  that  it 
would  become  deadly  after  awhile,  as  does  all  unchanging 
beauty.  The  call  of  the  soul  is  for  motion,  not  peace.  Peace 
after  activity  for  a  little  while,  then  activity  again.  So  must 
it  be.  He  understood  that. 

Just  before  he  left  for  New  York,  Christina  said  to  him: 

"Now,  when  you  see  me  again  I  will  be  Miss  Channing  of 
New  York.  You  will  be  Mr.  Witla.  We  will  almost  forget 
that  we  were  ever  here  together.  We  will  scarcely  believe  that 
we  have  seen  what  we  have  seen  and  done  what  we  have  done." 

"But,  Christina,  you  talk  as  though  everything  were  over. 
It  isn't,  is  it?" 

"We  can't  do  anything  like  this  in  New  York,"  she  sighed. 
"I  haven't  time  and  you  must  work." 


164  THE    "GENIUS'1 

There  was  a  shade  of  finality  in  her  tone. 

"Oh,  Christina,  don't  talk  so.  I  can't  think  that  way. 
Please  don't." 

"I  won't,"  she  said.     "We'll  see.     Wait  till  I  get  back." 

He  kissed  her  a  dozen  farewells  and  at  the  door  held  her 
close  once  more. 

"Will  you  forsake  me?"  he  asked. 

"No,  you  will  forsake  me.  But  remember,  dear!  Don't  you 
see?  You've  had  all.  Let  me  be  your  wood  nymph.  The 
rest  is  commonplace." 

He  went  back  to  his  hotel  with  an  ache  in  his  heart,  for 
he  knew  they  had  gone  through  all  they  ever  would.  She 
had  had  her  summer  with  him.  She  had  given  him  of  herself 
fully.  She  wanted  to  be  free  to  work  now.  He  could  not  under- 
stand it,  but  he  knew  it  to  be  so. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

IT  is  a  rather  dreary  thing  to  come  back  into  the  hot  city 
in  the  summer  after  a  period  of  beauty  in  the  mountains. 
The  quiet  of  the  hills  was  in  Eugene's  mind,  the  glisten  and 
babble  of  mountain  streams,  the  soar  and  poise  of  hawks  and 
buzzards  and  eagles  sailing  the  crystal  blue.  He  felt  lonely 
and  sick  for  awhile,  out  of  touch  with  work  and  with  practical 
life  generally.  There  were  little  souvenirs  of  his  recent  happi- 
ness in  the  shape  of  letters  and  notes  from  Christina,  but  he  was 
full  of  the  premonition  of  the  end  which  had  troubled  him  on 
leaving. 

He  must  write  to  Angela.  He  had  not  thought  of  her  all 
the  time  he  had  been  gone.  He  had  been  in  the  habit  of  writing 
to  her  every  third  or  fourth  day  at  least ;  while  of  late  his 
letters  had  been  less  passionate  they  had  remained  fairly  regular. 
But  now  this  sudden  break  coming — it  was  fully  three  weeks — 
made  her  think  he  must  be  ill,  although  she  had  begun  to 
feel  also  that  he  might  be  changing.  His  letters  had  grown 
steadily  less  reminiscent  of  the  joys  they  had  experienced  to- 
gether and  of  the  happiness  they  were  anticipating,  and  more  in- 
clined to  deal  with  the  color  and  character  of  city  life  and  of 
what  he  hoped  to  achieve.  Angela  was  inclined  to  excuse 
much  of  this  on  the  grounds  of  the  special  effort  he  was  making 
to  achieve  distinction  and  a  living  income  for  themselves.  But 
it  was  hard  to  explain  three  weeks  of  silence  without  something 
quite  serious  having  happened. 

Eugene  understood  this.  He  tried  to  explain  it  on  the 
grounds  of  illness,  stating  that  he  was  now  up  and  feeling  much 
better.  But  when  his  explanation  came,  it  had  the  hollow  ring 
of  insincerity.  Angela  wondered  what  the  truth  could  be. 
Was  he  yielding  to  the  temptation  of  that  looser  life  that  all 
artists  were  supposed  to  lead?  She  wondered  and  worried, 
for  time  was  slipping  away  and  he  was  setting  no  definite  date 
for  their  much  discussed  nuptials. 

The  trouble  with  Angela's  position  was  that  the  delay  involved 
practically  everything  which  was  important  in  her  life.  She 
was  five  years  older  than  Eugene.  She  had  long  since  lost  that 
atmosphere  of  youth  and  buoyancy  which  is  so  characteristic  of  a 
girl  between  eighteen  and  twenty-two.  Those  few  short  years 
following,  when  the  body  of  maidenhood  blooms  like  a  rose 

165 


1 66  THE    "GENIUS" 

and  there  is  about  it  the  freshness  and  color  of  all  rich,  new, 
lush  life,  were  behind  her.  Ahead  was  that  persistent  decline 
towards  something  harder,  shrewder  and  less  beautiful.  In  the 
case  of  some  persons  the  decline  is  slow  and  the  fragrance  of 
youth  lingers  for  years,  the  artifices  of  the  dressmaker,  the 
chemist,  and  the  jeweller  being  but  little  needed.  In  others 
it  is  fast  and  no  contrivance  will  stay  the  ravages  of  a  restless, 
eager,  dissatisfied  soul.  Sometimes  art  combines  with  slowness 
of  decay  to  make  a  woman  of  almost  perennial  charm,  loveliness 
of  mind  matching  loveliness  of  body,  and  taste  and  tact  supple- 
menting both.  Angela  was  fortunate  in  being  slow  to  fade 
and  she  had  a  loveliness  of  imagination  and  emotion  to  sustain 
her;  but  she  had  also  a  restless,  anxious  disposition  of  mind 
which,  if  it  had  not  been  stayed  by  the  kindly  color  of  her 
home  life  and  by  the  fortunate  or  unfortunate  intervention  of 
Eugene  at  a  time  when  she  considered  her  ideal  of  love  to  have 
fairly  passed  out  of  the  range  of  possibility,  would  already 
have  set  on  her  face  the  signs  of  old  maidenhood.  She  was 
not  of  the  newer  order  of  femininity,  eager  to  get  out  in  the 
world  and  follow  some  individual  line  of  self-development  and 
interest.  Rather  was  she  a  home  woman  wanting  some  one  man 
to  look  after  and  love.  The  wonder  and  beauty  of  her  dream 
of  happiness  with  Eugene  now  made  the  danger  of  its  loss  and 
the  possible  compulsory  continuance  of  a  humdrum,  underpaid, 
backwoods  existence,  heart-sickening. 

Meanwhile,  as  the  summer  passed,  Eugene  was  casually  en- 
larging his  acquaintance  with  women.  MacHugh  and  Smite  had 
gone  back  home  for  the  summer,  and  it  was  a  relief  from  his 
loneliness  to  encounter  one  day  in  an  editorial  office,  Norma 
Whitmore,  a  dark,  keen,  temperamental  and  moody  but  brilliant 
writer  and  editor  who,  like  others  before  her,  took  a  fancy  to 
Eugene.  She  was  introduced  to  him  by  Jans  Jansen,  Art 
Director  of  the  paper,  and  after  some  light  banter  she  offered 
to  show  him  her  office. 

She  led  the  way  to  a  little  room  no  larger  than  six  by  eight 
where  she  had  her  desk.  Eugene  noticed  that  she  was  lean 
and  sallow,  about  his  own  age  or  older,  and  brilliant  and 
vivacious.  Her  hands  took  his  attention  for  they  were  thin, 
shapely  and  artistic.  Her  eyes  burned  with  a  peculiar  lustre 
and  her  loose-fitting  clothes  were  draped  artistically  about  her. 
A  conversation  sprang  up  as  to  his  work,  which  she  knew  and 
admired,  and  he  was  invited  to  her  apartment.  He  looked  at 
Norma  with  an  unconsciously  speculative  eye. 

Christina  was  out  of  the  city,  but  the  memory  of  her  made 


THE    "GENIUS'  167 

it  impossible  for  him  to  write  to  Angela  in  his  old  vein  of 
devotion.  Nevertheless  he  still  thought  of  her  as  charming. 
He  thought  that  he  ought  to  write  more  regularly.  He  thought 
that  he  ought  pretty  soon  to  go  back  and  marry  her.  He 
was  approaching  the  point  where  he  could  support  her  in  a 
studio  if  they  lived  economically.  But  he  did  not  want  to 
exactly. 

He  had  known  her  now  for  three  years.  It  wras  fully  a  year 
and  a  half  since  he  had  seen  her  last.  In  the  last  year  his 
letters  had  been  less  and  less  about  themselves  and  more  and 
more  about  everything  else.  He  was  finding  the  conventional 
love  letters  difficult.  But  he  did  not  permit  himself  to  realize  just 
what  that  meant — to  take  careful  stock  of  his  emotions.  That 
would  have  compelled  him  to  the  painful  course  of  deciding  that 
he  could  not  marry  her,  and  asking  her  to  be  released  from  his 
promise.  He  did  not  want  to  do  that.  Instead  he  parleyed, 
held  by  pity  for  her  passing  youth  and  her  undeniable  affection 
for  him,  by  his  sense  of  the  unfairness  of  having  taken  up  so 
much  of  her  time  to  the  exclusion  of  every  other  person  who 
might  have  proposed  to  her,  by  sorrow  for  the  cruelty  of  her 
position  in  being  left  to  explain  to  her  family  that  she  had  been 
jilted.  He  hated  to  hurt  any  person's  feelings.  He  did  not 
want  to  be  conscious  of  the  grief  of  any  person  who  had  come 
to  suffering  through  him  and  he  could  not  make  them  suffer 
very  well  and  not  be  conscious.  He  was  too  tender  hearted. 
He  had  pledged  himself  to  Angela,  giving  her  a  ring,  begging 
her  to  wait,  writing  her  fulsome  letters  of  protest  and  desire. 
Now,  after  three  years,  to  shame  her  before  her  charming  family 
— old  Jotham,  her  mother,  her  sisters  and  brothers — it  seemed 
a  cruel  thing  to  do,  and  he  did  not  care  to  contemplate  it. 

Angela,  with  her  morbid,  passionate,  apprehensive  nature, 
did  not  fail  to  see  disaster  looming  in  the  distance.  She  loved 
Eugene  passionately  and  the  pent-up  fires  of  her  nature  had  been 
waiting  all  these  years  the  warrant  to  express  their  ardor 
which  marriage  alone  could  confer.  Eugene,  by  the  charm 
of  his  manner  and  person,  no  less  than  by  the  sensuous  character 
of  some  of  his  moods  and  the  subtleties  and  refinements  of  his 
references  to  the  ties  of  sex,  had  stirred  her  to  anticipate  a 
perfect  fruition  of  her  dreams,  and  she  was  now  eager  for  that 
fruition  almost  to  the  point  of  being  willing  to  sacrifice  virginity 
itself.  The  remembrance  of  the  one  significant  scene  between 
her  and  Eugene  tormented  her.  She  felt  that  if  his  love  was 
to  terminate  in  indifference  now  it  would  have  been  better  to 
have  yielded  then.  She  wished  that  she  had  not  tried  to  save 


1 68  THE    "GENIUS" 

herself.  Perhaps  there  would  have  been  a  child,  and  he  would 
have  been  true  to  her  out  of  a  sense  of  sympathy  and  duty.  At 
least  she  would  have  had  that  crowning  glory  of  womanhood, 
ardent  union  with  her  lover,  and  if  worst  had  come  to  worst  she 
could  have  died. 

She  thought  of  the  quiet  little  lake  near  her  home,  its  glassy 
bosom  a  mirror  to  the  sky,  and  how,  in  case  of  failure,  she 
would  have  looked  lying  on  its  sandy  bottom,  her  pale  hair 
diffused  by  some  aimless  motion  of  the  water,  her  eyes  sealed  by 
the  end  of  consciousness,  her  hands  folded.  Her  fancy  outran 
her  daring.  She  would  not  have  done  this,  but  she  could  dream 
about  it,  and  it  made  her  distress  all  the  more  intense. 

As  time  went  by  and  Eugene's  ardor  did  not  revive,  this 
problem  of  her  love  became  more  harrassing  and  she  began  to 
wonder  seriously  what  she  could  do  to  win  him  back  to  her. 
He  had  expressed  such  a  violent  desire  for  her  on  his  last 
visit,  had  painted  his  love  in  such  glowing  terms  that  she 
felt  convinced  he  must  love  her  still,  though  absence  and  the 
excitements  of  city  life  had  dimmed  the  memory  of  her  tem- 
porarily. She  remembered  a  line  in  a  comic  opera  which  she 
and  Eugene  had  seen  together:  "Absence  is  the  dark  room  in 
which  lovers  develop  negatives"  and  this  seemed  a  case  in 
point.  If  she  could  get  him  back,  if  he  could  be  near  her  again, 
his  old  fever  would  develop  and  she  would  then  find  some  way 
of  making  him  take  her,  perhaps.  It  did  not  occur  to  her 
quite  clearly  just  how  this  could  be  done  at  this  time  but  some 
vague  notion  of  self-immolation  was  already  stirring  vaguely 
and  disturbingly  in  her  brain. 

The  trying  and  in  a  way  disheartening  conditions  of  her 
home  went  some  way  to  sustain  this  notion.  Her  sister  Marietta 
was  surrounded  by  a  score  of  suitors  who  were  as  eager  for  her 
love  as  a  bee  is  for  the  honey  of  a  flower,  and  Angela  could  see 
that  they  were  already  looking  upon  herself  as  an  elderly 
chaperon.  Her  mother  and  father  watched  her  going  about  her 
work  and  grieved  because  so  good  a  girl  should  be  made  to 
suffer  for  want  of  a  proper  understanding.  She  could  not  conceal 
her  feelings  entirely  and  they  could  see  at  times  that  she  was 
unhappy.  She  could  see  that  they  saw  it.  It  was  hard  to 
have  to  explain  to  her  sisters  and  brothers,  who  occasionally 
asked  after  Eugene,  that  he  was  doing  all  right,  and  never 
be  able  to  say  that  he  was  coming  for  her  some  day  soon. 

At  first  Marietta  had  been  envious  of  her.  She  thought 
she  would  like  to  win  Eugene  for  herself,  and  only  con- 
sideration for  Angela's  age  and  the  fact  that  she  had  not  been 


THE    "GENIUS'  169 

so  much  sought  after  had  deterred  her.  Now  that  Eugene  was 
obviously  neglecting  her,  or  at  least  delaying  beyond  any  rea- 
sonable period,  she  was  deeply  sorry.  Once,  before  she  had 
grown  into  the  age  of  courtship,  she  had  said  to  Angela:  "I'm 
going  to  be  nice  to  the  men.  You're  too  cold.  You'll  never 
get  married."  And  Angela  had  realized  that  it  was  not  a 
matter  of  "too  cold,"  but  an  innate  prejudice  against  most  of 
the  types  she  met.  And  then  the  average  man  did  not  take  to 
her.  She  could  not  spur  herself  to  pleasure  in  their  company. 
It  took  a  fire  like  Eugene's  to  stir  her  mightily,  and  once  having 
known  that  she  could  brook  no  other.  Marietta  realized  this 
too.  Now  because  of  these  three  years  she  had  cut  herself 
off  from  other  men,  particularly  the  one  who  had  been  most 
attentive  to  her — faithful  Victor  Dean.  The  one  thing  that 
might  save  Angela  from  being  completely  ignored  was  a  spirit 
of  romance  which  kept  her  young  in  looks  as  in  feelings. 

With  the  fear  of  desertion  in  her  mind  Angela  began  to  hint 
in  her  letters  to  Eugene  that  he  should  come  back  to  see  her, 
to  express  the  hope  in  her  letters  that  their  marriage  need  not — 
because  of  any  difficulty  of  establishing  himself — be  postponed 
much  longer.  She  said  to  him  over  and  over  that  she  could 
be  happy  with  him  in  a  cottage  and  that  she  so  longed  to  see 
him  again.  Eugene  began  to  ask  himself  what  he  wanted  to  do. 

The  fact  that  on  the  passional  side  Angela  appealed  to  him 
more  than  any  woman  he  had  ever  known  was  a  saving  point  in 
her  favor  at  this  juncture.  There  was  a  note  in  her  make-up 
which  was  stronger,  deeper,  more  suggestive  of  joy  to  come 
than  anything  he  had  found  elsewhere.  He  remembered  keenly 
the  wonderful  days  he  had  spent  with  her — the  one  significant 
night  when  she  begged  him  to  save  her  against  herself.  All  the 
beauty  of  the  season  with  which  she  was  surrounded  at  that 
time;  the  charm  of  her  family,  the  odor  of  flowers  and  the 
shade  of  trees  served  to  make  a  setting  for  her  delightfulness 
which  still  endured  with  him  as  fresh  as  yesterday.  Now, 
without  having  completed  that  romance — a  very  perfect  flower — 
could  he  cast  it  aside? 

At  this  time  he  was  not  entangled  with  any  woman.  Miriam 
Finch  was  too  conservative  and  intellectual;  Norma  Whitmore 
not  attractive  enough.  As  for  some  other  charming  examples 
of  femininity  whom  he  had  met  here  and  there,  he  had  not  been 
drawn  to  them  or  they  to  him.  Emotionally  he  was  lonely  and 
this  for  him  was  always  a  very  susceptible  mood.  He  could 
not  make  up  his  mind  that  the  end  had  come  with  Angela. 

It  so   happened   that   Marietta,    after   watching   her   sister's 


170  THE    "GENIUS'1 

love  affair  some  time,  reached  the  conclusion  that  she  ought 
to  try  to  help  her.  Angela  was  obviously  concealing  a  weariness 
of  heart  which  was  telling  on  her  peace  of  mind  and  her  sweet- 
ness of  disposition.  She  was  unhappy  and  it  grieved  her  sister 
greatly.  The  latter  loved  her  in  a  whole-hearted  way,  in  spite 
of  the  fact  that  their  affections  might  possibly  have  clashed 
over  Eugene,  and  she  thought  once  of  writing  in  a  sweet  way 
and  telling  him  how  things  were.  She  thought  he  was  good 
and  kind,  that  he  loved  Angela,  that  perhaps  he  was  delaying  as 
her  sister  said  until  he  should  have  sufficient  means  to  marry 
well,  and  that  if  the  right  word  were  said  now  he  would 
cease  chasing  a  phantom  fortune  long  enough  to  realize  that 
it  were  better  to  take  Angela  while  they  were  still  young, 
than  to  wait  until  they  were  so  old  that  the  romance  of  marriage 
would  for  them  be  over.  She  revolved  this  in  her  mind  a  long 
time,  picturing  to  herself  how  sweet  Angela  really  was,  and 
finally  nerved  herself  to  pen  the  following  letter,  which  she 
sent. 

"Dear  Eugene: 

You  will  be  surprised  to  get  a  letter  from  me  and  I  want  you 
to  promise  me  that  you  will  never  say  anything  about  it  to  anyone — 
above  all  never  to  Angela.  Eugene,  I  have  been  watching  her  for  a 
long  time  now  and  I  know  she  is  not  happy.  She  is  so  desperately 
in  love  with  you.  I  notice  when  a  letter  does  not  come  promptly  she 
is  downcast  and  I  can't  help  seeing  that  she  is  longing  to  have  you 
here  with  her.  Eugene,  why  don't  you  marry  Angela?  She  is  lovely 
and  attractive  now  and  she  is  as  good  as  she  is  beautiful.  She  doesn't 
want  to  wait  for  a  fine  house  and  luxuries — no  girl  wants  to  do  that, 
Eugene,  when  she  loves  as  I  know  Angela  does  you.  She  would 
rather  have  you  now  when  you  are  both  young  and  can  enjoy  life 
than  any  fine  house  or  nice  things  you  might  give  her  later.  Now, 
I  haven't  talked  to  her  at  all,  Eugene — never  one  word — and  I  know 
it  would  hurt  her  terribly  if  she  thought  I  had  written  to  you.  She 
would  never  forgive  me.  But  I  can't  help  it.  I  can't  bear  to  see 
her  grieving  and  longing,  and  I  know  that  when  you  know  you  will 
come  and  get  her.  Don't  ever  indicate  in  any  way,  please,  that  I  wrote 
to  you.  Don't  write  to  me  unless  you  want  to  very  much.  I  would 
rather  you  didn't.  And  tear  up  this  letter.  But  do  come  for  her 
soon,  Eugene,  please  do.  She  wants  you.  And  she  will  make  you  a 
perfectly  wonderful  wife  for  she  is  a  wonderful  girl.  We  all  love 
her  so — papa  and  mamma  and  all.  I  hope  you  will  forgive  me.  I 
can't  help  it  "With  love  I  am  yours, 

"MARIETTA." 

When  Eugene  received  this  letter  he  was  surprised  and 
astonished,  but  also  distressed  for  himself  and  Angela  and 
Marietta  and  the  whole  situation.  The  tragedy  of  this  situation 
appealed  to  him  perhaps  as  much  from  the  dramatic  as  from  the 


THE    "GENIUS'8  i7I 

personal  point  of  view.  Little  Angela,  with  her  yellow  hair 
and  classic  face.  What  a  shame  that  they  could  not  be  to- 
gether as  she  wished;  as  really,  in  a  way,  he  wished.  She  was 
beautiful — no  doubt  of  that.  And  there  was  a  charm  about  her 
which  was  as  alluring  as  that  of  any  girl  barring  the  intellectually 
exceptional.  Her  emotions  in  a  way  were  deeper  than  those  of 
Miriam  Finch  and  Christina  Channing.  She  could  not  rea- 
son about  them — that  was  all.  She  just  felt  them.  He  saw 
all  the  phases  of  her  anguish — the  probable  attitude  of  her 
parents,  her  own  feelings  at  being  looked  at  by  them,  the  way 
her  friends  wondered.  It  was  a  shame,  no  doubt  of  that — a 
cruel  situation.  Perhaps  he  had  better  go  back.  He  could 
be  happy  with  her.  They  could  live  in  a  studio  and  no  doubt 
things  would  work  out  all  right.  Had  he  better  be  cruel  and 
not  go?  He  hated  to  think  of  it. 

Anyhow  he  did  not  answer  Marietta's  letter,  and  he  did 
tear  it  up  into  a  thousand  bits,  as  she  requested.  "If  Angela 
knew  no  doubt  she  would  feel  wretched, "  he  thought. 

In  the  meanwhile  Angela  was  thinking,  and  her  brooding  led 
her  to  the  conclusion  that  it  might  be  advisable,  if  ever  her 
lover  came  back,  to  yield  herself  in  order  that  he  might  feel 
compelled  to  take  her.  She  was  no  reasoner  about  life  in 
any  big  sense.  Her  judgment  of  affairs  was  more  confused  at  this 
time  than  at  a  later  period.  She  had  no  clear  conception  of  how 
foolish  any  trickery  of  this  sort  would  be.  She  loved  Eugene, 
felt  that  she  must  have  him,  felt  that  she  would  be  willing 
to  die  rather  than  lose  him  and  the  thought  of  trickery  came 
only  as  a  last  resource.  If  he  refused  her  she  was  determined 
on  one  thing — the  lake.  She  would  quit  this  dreary  world 
where  love  was  crossed  with  despair  in  its  finest  moments; 
she  would  forget  it  all.  If  only  there  were  rest  and  silence  on 
the  other  side  that  would  be  enough. 

The  year  moved  on  toward  spring  and  because  of  some  note  of 
this,  reiterated  in  pathetic  phrases,  he  came  to  feel  that  he  must  go 
back.  Marietta's  letter  preyed  on  his  mind.  The  intensity  of 
Angela's  attitude  made  him  feel  that  something  desperate  would 
happen.  He  could  not,  in  cold  blood,  sit  down  and  write  her 
that  he  would  not  see  her  any  more.  The  impressions  of 
Blackwood  were  too  fresh  in  his  mind — the  summer  incense  and 
green  beauty  of  the  world  in  which  she  lived.  He  wrote  in 
April  that  he  would  come  again  in  June,  and  Angela  was  beside 
herself  with  joy. 

One  of  the  things  which  helped  Eugene  to  this  conclusion  was 
the  fact  that  Christina  Channing  was  not  coming  back  from 


172  THE    "GENIUS'5 

Europe  that  year.  She  had  written  a  few  times  during  the  winter, 
but  very  guardedly.  A  casual  reader  could  not  have  drawn 
from  what  she  said  that  there  had  ever  been  anything  between 
them.  He  had  written  much  more  ardently,  of  course,  but 
she  had  chosen  to  ignore  his  eager  references,  making  him 
feel  by  degrees  that  he  was  not  to  know  much  of  her  in  the 
future.  They  were  going  to  be  good  friends,  but  not  necessarily 
lovers  nor  eventually  husband  and  wife.  It  irritated  him  to  think 
she  could  be  so  calm  about  a  thing  which  to  him  seemed  so 
important.  It  hurt  his  pride  to  think  she  could  so  deliberately 
throw  him  over.  Finally  he  began  to  be  incensed,  and  then 
Angela's  fidelity  appeared  in  a  much  finer  light.  There  was  a 
girl  who  would  not  treat  him  so.  She  really  loved  him.  She 
was  faithful  and  true.  So  his  promised  trip  began  to  look  much 
more  attractive,  and  by  June  he  was  in  a  fever  to  see  her. 


CHAPTER   XXVI 

^  I AHE  beautiful  June  weather  arrived  and  with  it  Eugene 
A  took  his  departure  once  more  for  Blackwood.  He  was 
in  a  peculiar  mood,  for  while  he  was  anxious  to  see  Angela 
again  it  was  with  the  thought  that  perhaps  he  was  making  a 
mistake.  A  notion  of  fatality  was  beginning  to  run  through 
his  mind.  Perhaps  he  was  destined  to  take  her!  and  yet, 
could  anything  be  more  ridiculous?  He  could  decide.  He  had 
deliberately  decided  to  go  back  there — or  had  he?  He  admitted 
to  himself  that  his  passion  was  drawing  him — in  fact  he  could 
not  see  that  there  was  anything  much  in  love  outside  of  passion. 
Desire!  Wasn't  that  all  that  pulled  two  people  together?  There 
was  some  little  charm  of  personality  above  that,  but  desire  was 
the  keynote.  And  if  the  physical  attraction  were  strong  enough, 
wasn't  that  sufficient  to  hold  two  people  together?  Did  you 
really  need  so  much  more?  It  was  logic  based  on  youth,  en- 
thusiasm and  inexperience,  but  it  was  enough  to  hold  him  for 
the  time  being — to  soothe  him.  To  Angela  he  was  not  drawn 
by  any  of  the  things  which  drew  him  to  Miriam  Finch  and 
Norma  Whitmore,  nor  was  there  the  wonderful  art  of  Christina 
Channing.  Still  he  was  going. 

His  interest  in  Norma  Whitmore  had  increased  greatly  as  the 
winter  passed.  In  this  woman  he  had  found  an  intellect  as 
broadening  and  refining  as  any  he  had  encountered.  Her  taste 
for  the  exceptional  in  literature  and  art  was  as  great  as  that 
of  anyone  he  had  ever  known  and  it  was  just  as  individual. 
She  ran  to  impressive  realistic  fiction  in  literature  and  to  the 
kind  of  fresh-from-the-soil  art  which  Eugene  represented.  Her 
sense  of  just  how  big  and  fresh  was  the  thing  he  was  trying 
to  do  was  very  encouraging,  and  she  was  carrying  the  word 
about  town  to  all  her  friends  that  he  was  doing  it.  She 
had  even  gone  so  far  as  to  speak  to  two  different  art  dealers 
asking  them  why  they  had  not  looked  into  what  seemed  to  her 
his  perfectly  wonderful  drawings. 

"Why,  they're  astonishing  in  their  newness/'  she  told  Eberhard 
Zang,  one  of  the  important  picture  dealers  on  Fifth  Avenue. 
She  knew  him  from  having  gone  there  to  borrow  pictures  for 
reproduction. 

"Witla!     Witla!"   he  commented   in   his  conservative   Ger- 


174  THE      'GENIUS' 

man  way,  rubbing  his  chin,  "I  doand  remember  seeing  anything 
by  him." 

"Of  course  you  don't,"  replied  Norma  persistently.  "He's 
new,  I  tell  you.  He  hasn't  been  here  so  very  long.  You  get 
Truth  for  some  week  in  last  month — I  forget  which  one — and 
see  that  picture  of  Greeley  Square.  It  will  show  you  what 
I  mean." 

"Witla!  Witla!"  repeated  Zang,  much  as  a  parrot  might 
fix  a  sound  in  its  memory.  "Tell  him  to  come  in  here  and 
see  me  some  day.  I  should  like  to  see  some  of  his  things." 

"I  will,"  said  Norma,  genially.  She  was  anxious  to  have 
Eugene  go,  but  he  was  more  anxious  to  get  a  lot  of  things 
done  before  he  had  an  exhibition.  He  did  not  want  to 
risk  an  impression  with  anything  short  of  a  rather  extensive 
series.  And  his  collection  of  views  was  not  complete  at 
that  time.  Besides  he  had  a  much  more  significant  art  dealer  in 
mind. 

He  and  Norma  had  reached  the  point  by  this  time  where 
they  \vere  like  brother  and  sister,  or  better  yet,  two  good  men 
friends.  He  would  slip  his  arm  about  her  waist  when  entering 
her  rooms  and  was  free  to  hold  her  hands  or  pat  her  on  the  arm 
or  shoulder.  There  was  nothing  more  than  strong  good  feel- 
ing on  his  part,  while  on  hers  a  burning  affection  might  have 
been  inspired,  but  his  genial,  brotherly  attitude  convinced  her 
that  it  was  useless.  He  had  never  told  her  of  any  of  his  other 
women  friends  and  he  was  wondering  as  he  rode  west  how 
she  and  Miriam  Finch  would  take  his  marriage  with  Angela, 
supposing  that  he  ever  did  marry  her.  As  for  Christina  Chan- 
ning,  he  did  not  want  to  think — really  did  not  dare  to  think 
of  her  very  much.  Some  sense  of  lost  beauty  came  to  him 
out  of  that  experience — a  touch  of  memory  that  had  a  pang 
in  it. 

Chicago  in  June  was  just  a  little  dreary  to  him  with  its 
hurry  of  life,  its  breath  of  past  experience,  the  Art  Institute, 
the  Daily  Globe  building,  the  street  and  house  in  which  Ruby 
had  lived.  He  wondered  about  her  (as  he  had  before)  the 
moment  he  neared  the  city,  and  had  a  strong  desire  to  go  and 
look  her  up.  Then  he  visited  the  Globe  offices,  but  Mathews 
had  gone.  Genial,  cheerful  Jerry  had  moved  to  Philadelphia 
recently,  taking  a  position  on  the  Philadelphia  North  American, 
leaving  Howe  alone,  more  finicky  and  picayune  than  ever.  Gold- 
farb,  of  course,  was  gone  and  Eugene  felt  out  of  it.  He  was 
glad  to  take  the  train  for  Blackwood,  for  he  felt  lonesome.  He 
left  the  city  with  quite  an  ache  for  old  times  in  his  heart  and 


THE   "GENIUS"  i?S 

the  feeling  that  life  was  a  jumble  of  meaningless,  strange  and 
pathetic  things. 

"To  think  that  we  should  grow  old,"  he  pondered,  "that  things 
that  were  as  real  as  these  things  were  to  me,  should  become 
mere  memories." 

The  time  just  before  he  reached  Blackwood  was  one  of  great 
emotional  stress  for  Angela.  Now  she  was  to  learn  whether 
he  really  loved  her  as  much  as  he  had.  She  was  to  feel  the 
joy  of  his  presence,  the  subtle  influence  of  his  attitude.  She 
was  to  find  whether  she  could  hold  him  or  not.  Marietta, 
who  on  hearing  that  he  was  coming,  had  rather  plumed  herself 
that  her  letter  had  had  something  to  do  with  it,  was  afraid 
that  her  sister  would  not  make  good  use  of  this  opportune 
occasion.  She  was  anxious  that  Angela  should  look  her  best, 
and  made  suggestions  as  to  things  she  might  wear,  games  she 
might  play  (they  had  installed  tennis  and  croquet  as  part  of 
the  home  pleasures  since  he  had  been  there  last)  and  places 
they  might  go  to.  Marietta  was  convinced  that  Angela  was 
not  artful  enough — not  sufficiently  subtle  in  her  presentation 
of  her  charms.  He  could  be  made  to  feel  very  keen  about  her 
if  she  dressed  right  and  showed  herself  to  the  best  advantage. 
Marietta  herself  intended  to  keep  out  of  the  way  as  much  as 
possible  when  Eugene  arrived,  and  to  appear  at  great  disad- 
vantage in  the  matter  of  dress  and  appearance  when  seen ;  for  she 
had  become  a  perfect  beauty  and  was  a  breaker  of  hearts  without 
conscious  effort. 

"You  know  that  string  of  coral  beads  I  have,  Angel  Face," 
she  asked  Angela  one  morning  some  ten  days  before  Eugene 
arrived.  "Wear  them  with  that  tan  linen  dress  of  mine  and 
your  tan  shoes  some  day  for  Eugene.  You'll  look  stunning 
in  those  things  and  he'll  like  you.  Why  don't  you  take  the 
new  buggy  and  drive  over  to  Blackwood  to  meet  him?  That's 
it.  You  must  meet  him." 

"Oh,  I  don't  think  I  want  to,  Babyette,"  she  replied.  She 
was  afraid  of  this  first  impression.  She  did  not  want  to  appear 
to  run  after  him.  Babyette  was  a  nickname  which  had  been 
applied  to  Marietta  in  childhood  and  had  never  been  dropped. 

"Oh,  pshaw,  Angel  Face,  don't  be  so  backward!  You're 
the  shyest  thing  I  know.  Why  that's  nothing.  He'll  like  you 
all  the  better  for  treating  him  just  a  little  smartly.  You  do  that 
now,  will  you?" 

"I  can't,"  replied  Angela.  "I  can't  do  it  that  way.  Let 
him  come  over  here  first;  then  I'll  drive  him  over  some  after- 
noon." 


176  THE   "GENIUS" 

"Oh,  Angel  Face!  Well,  anyhow,  when  he  comes  you  must 
wear  that  little  rose  flowered  house  dress  and  put  a  wreath  of 
green  leaves  in  your  hair." 

"Oh,  I  won't  do  anything  of  the  sort,  Babyette,"  exclaimed 
Angela. 

"Yes,  you  will,"  replied  her  sister.  "Now  you  just  have 
to  do  what  I  tell  you  for  once.  That  dress  looks  beautiful 
on  you  and  the  wreath  will  make  it  perfect." 

"It  isn't  the  dress.     I  know  that's  nice.     It's  the  wreath." 

Marietta  was  incensed  by  this  bit  of  pointless  reserve. 

"Oh,  Angela,"  she  exclaimed,  "don't  be  so  silly.  You're  older 
than  I  am,  but  I  know  more  about  men  in  a  minute  than 
you'll  ever  know.  Don't  you  want  him  to  like  you?  You'll 
have  to  be  more  daring — goodness!  Lots  of  girls  would  go  a 
lot  farther  than  that." 

She  caught  her  sister  about  the  waist  and  looked  into  her 
eyes.  "Now  you've  got  to  wear  it,"  she  added  finally,  and 
Angela  understood  that  Marietta  wanted  her  to  entice  Eugene 
by  any  means  in  her  power  to  make  him  declare  himself  finally 
and  set  a  definite  date  or  take  her  back  to  New  York  with 
him. 

There  were  other  conversations  in  which  a  trip  to  the  lake 
was  suggested,  games  of  tennis,  with  Angela  wearing  her 
white  tennis  suit  and  shoes,  a  country  dance  which  might  be 
got  up — there  were  rumors  of  one  to  be  given  in  the  new  barn 
of  a  farmer  some  seven  miles  away.  Marietta  was  determined 
that  Angela  should  appear  youthful,  gay,  active,  just  the  things 
which  she  knew  instinctively  would  fascinate  Eugene. 

Finally  Eugene  came.  He  arrived  at  Blackwood  at  noon. 
Despite  her  objections  Angela  met  him,  dressed  smartly  and,  as 
urged  by  Marietta,  carrying  herself  with  an  air.  She  hoped 
to  impress  Eugene  with  a  sense  of  independence,  but  when  she 
saw  him  stepping  down  from  the  train  in  belted  corduroy 
travelling  suit  with  a  grey  English  travelling  cap,  carrying  a 
green  leather  bag  of  the  latest  design,  her  heart  misgave  her.  He 
was  so  worldly  now,  so  experienced.  You  could  see  by  his 
manner  that  this  country  place  meant  little  or  nothing  to  him. 
He  had  tasted  of  the  world  at  large. 

Angela  had  stayed  in  her  buggy  at  the  end  of  the  depot  plat- 
form and  she  soon  caught  Eugene's  eye  and  waved  to  him.  He 
came  briskly  forward. 

"Why,  sweet,"  he  exclaimed,  "here  you  are.  How  nice 
you  look !"  He  jumped  up  beside  her,  surveying  her  critically  and 
she  could  feel  his  examining  glance.  After  the  first  pleasant  im- 


THE    "GENIUS'  177 

pression  he  sensed  the  difference  between  his  new  world  and 
hers  and  was  a  little  depressed  by  it.  She  was  a  little  older, 
no  doubt  of  that.  You  cannot  hope  and  yearn  and  worry  for 
three  years  and  not  show  it.  And  yet  she  was  fine  and  tender 
and  sympathetic  and  emotional.  He  felt  all  this.  It  hurt  him 
a  little  for  her  sake  and  his  too. 

"Well,  how  have  you  been?"  he  asked.  They  were  in  the 
confines  of  the  village  and  no  demonstration  could  be  made. 
Until  the  quiet  of  a  country  road  could  be  reached  all  had  to 
be  formal. 

"Oh,  just  the  same,  Eugene,  longing  to  see  you." 

She  looked  into  his  eyes  and  he  felt  the  impact  of  that  emotional 
force  which  governed  her  when  she  was  near  him.  There 
was  something  in  the  chemistry  of  her  being  which  roused  to 
blazing  the  ordinarily  dormant  forces  of  his  sympathies.  She 
tried  to  conceal  her  real  feeling — to  pretend  gaiety  and  en- 
thusiasm, but  her  eyes  betrayed  her.  Something  roused  in  him 
now  at  her  look — a  combined  sense  of  emotion  and  desire. 

"It's  so  fine  to  be  out  in  the  country  again,"  he  said,  pressing 
her  hand,  for  he  was  letting  her  drive.  "After  the  city,  to  see 
you  and  the  green  fields!"  He  looked  about  at  the  little  one- 
storey  cottages,  each  with  a  small  plot  of  grass,  a  few  trees, 
a  neat  confining  fence.  After  New  York  and  Chicago,  a 
village  like  this  was  quaint. 

"Do  you  love  me  just  as  much  as  ever?" 

She  nodded  her  head.  They  reached  a  strip  of  yellow 
road,  he  asking  after  her  father,  her  mother,  her  brothers  and 
sisters,  and  when  he  saw  that  they  were  unobserved  he  slipped 
his  arm  about  her  and  drew  her  head  to  him. 

"Now  we  can,"  he  said. 

She  felt  the  force  of  his  desire  but  she  missed  that  note  of 
adoration  which  had  seemed  to  characterize  his  first  lovemaking. 
How  true  it  was  he  had  changed!  He  must  have.  The  city 
had  made  her  seem  less  significant.  It  hurt  her  to  think  that  life 
should  treat  her  so.  But  perhaps  she  could  win  him  back — 
could  hold  him  anyhow. 

They  drove  over  toward  Okoonee,  a  little  crossroads  settle- 
ment, near  a  small  lake  of  the  same  name,  a  place  which  was 
close  to  the  Blue  house,  and  which  the  Blue's  were  wont  to 
speak  of  as  "home."  On  the  way  Eugene  learned  that  her 
youngest  brother  David  was  a  cadet  at  West  Point  now  and 
doing  splendidly.  Samuel  had  become  western  freight  agent 
of  the  Great  Northern  and  was  on  the  way  to  desirable  promo- 
tion. Benjamin  had  completed  his  law  studies  and  was  practising 


178  THE    "GENIUS" 

in  Racine.  He  was  interested  in  politics  and  was  going  to 
run  for  the  state  legislature.  Marietta  was  still  the  gay  care- 
free girl  she  had  always  been,  not  at  all  inclined  to  choose  yet 
among  her  many  anxious  suitors.  Eugene  thought  of  her  letter 
to  him — wondered  if  she  would  look  her  thoughts  into  his  eyes 
when  he  saw  her. 

"Oh,  Marietta,"  Angela  replied  when  Eugene  asked  after 
her,  "she's  just  as  dangerous  as  ever.  She  makes  all  the  men 
make  love  to  her." 

Eugene  smiled.  Marietta  was  always  a  pleasing  thought  to 
him.  He  wished  for  the  moment  that  it  was  Marietta  in- 
stead of  Angela  that  he  was  coming  to  see. 

She  was  as  shrewd  as  she.  was  kind  in  this  instance.  Her 
appearance  on  meeting  Eugene  was  purposely  indifferent  and  her 
attitude  anything  but  coaxing  and  gay.  At  the  same  time 
she  suffered  a  genuine  pang  of  feeling,  for  Eugene  appealed 
to  her.  If  it  were  anybody  but  Angela,  she  thought,  how  she 
would  dress  and  how  quickly  she  would  be  coquetting  with 
him.  Then  his  love  would  be  won  by  her  and  she  felt  that  she 
could  hold  it.  She  had  great  confidence  in  her  ability  to  keep 
any  man,  and  Eugene  was  a  man  she  would  have  delighted 
to  hold.  As  it  was  she  kept  out  of  his  way,  took  sly  glances 
at  him  here  and  there,  wondered  if  Angela  would  truly  win 
him.  She  was  so  anxious  for  Angela's  sake.  Never,  never, 
she  told  herself,  would  she  cross  her  sister's  path. 

At  the  Blue  homestead  he  was  received  as  cordially  as  before. 
After  an  hour  it  quite  brought  back  the  feeling  of  three  years 
before.  These  open  fields,  this  old  house  and  its  lovely  lawn,  all 
served  to  awaken  the  most  poignant  sensations.  One  of  Mari- 
etta's beaux,  over  from  Waukesha,  appeared  after  Eugene  had 
greeted  Mrs.  Blue  and  Marietta,  and  the  latter  persuaded  him  to 
play  a  game  of  tennis  with  Angela.  She  invited  Eugene  to 
make  it  a  four  with  her,  but  not  knowing  how  he  refused. 

Angela  changed  to  her  tennis  suit  and  Eugene  opened  his 
eyes  to  her  charms.  She  was  very  attractive  on  the  court,  quick, 
flushed,  laughing.  And  when  she  laughed  she  had  a  charming 
way  of  showing  her  even,  small,  white  teeth.  She  quite  awakened 
a  feeling  of  interest — she  looked  so  dainty  and  frail.  When 
he  saw  her  afterward  in  the  dark,  quiet  parlor,  he  gathered  her 
to  his  heart  with  much  of  the  old  ardour.  She  felt  the  quick 
change  of  feeling.  Marietta  was  right.  Eugene  loved  gaiety 
and  color.  Although  on  the  way  home  she  had  despaired  this 
was  much  more  promising. 

Eugene  rarely  entered  on   anything  half  heartedly.     If   in- 


THE   ''GENIUS'  179 

terested  at  all  he  was  greatly  interested.  He  could  so  yield 
himself  to  the  glamour  of  a  situation  as  to  come  finally  to  believe 
that  he  was  something  which  he  was  not.  Thus,  now  he 
was  beginning  to  accept  this  situation  as  Angela  and  Marietta 
wished  he  should,  and  to  see  her  in  somewhat  the  old  light.  He 
overlooked  things  which  in  his  New  York  studio,  surrounded 
by  the  influences  which  there  modified  his  judgment,  he  would 
have  seen.  Angela  was  not  young  enough  for  him.  She  was 
not  liberal  in  her  views.  She  was  charming,  no  doubt  of  that, 
but  he  could  not  bring  her  to  an  understanding  of  his  casual 
acceptance  of  life.  She  knew  nothing  of  his  real  disposition 
and  he  did  not  tell  her.  He  played  the  part  of  a  seemingly 
single-minded  Romeo,  and  as  such  he  was  from  a  woman's  point 
of  view  beautiful  to  contemplate.  In  his  own  mind  he  was 
coming  to  see  that  he  was  fickle  but  he  still  did  not  want  to 
admit  it  to  himself. 

There  was  a  night  of  stars  after  an  evening  of  June  perfection. 
At  five  old  Jotham  came  in  from  the  fields,  as  dignified  and 
patriarchal  as  ever.  He  greeted  Eugene  with  a  hearty  handshake, 
for  he  admired  him.  "I  see  some  of  your  work  now  and  then," 
he  said,  "in  these  monthly  magazines.  It's  fine.  There's  a 
young  minister  down  here  near  the  lake  that's  very  anxious  to 
meet  you.  He  likes  to  get  hold  of  anything  you  do,  and  I 
always  send  the  books  down  as  soon  as  Angela  gets  through 
with  them." 

He  used  the  words  books  and  magazines  interchangeably, 
and  spoke  as  though  they  were  not  much  more  important  to  him 
than  the  leaves  of  the  trees,  as  indeed,  they  were  not.  To  a 
mind  used  to  contemplating  the  succession  of  crops  and  seasons, 
all  life  with  its  multitudinous  inteiplay  of  shapes  and  forms 
seemed  passing  shadows.  Even  men  were  like  leaves  that  fall. 

Eugene  was  drawn  to  old  Jotham  as  a  filing  to  a  magnet.  His 
was  just  the  type  of  mind  that  appealed  to  him,  and  Angela 
gained  by  the  radiated  glory  of  her  father.  If  he  was  so 
wonderful  she  must  be  something  above  the  average  of  woman- 
hood. Such  a  man  could  not  help  but  produce  exceptional 
children. 

Left  alone  together  it  was  hardly  possible  for  Angela  and 
Eugene  not  to  renew  the  old  relationship  on  the  old  basis. 
Having  gone  as  far  as  he  had  the  first  time  it  was  natural  that 
he  should  wish  to  go  as  far  again  and  further.  After  dinner, 
when  she  turned  to  him  from  her  room,  arrayed  in  a  soft  evening 
dress  of  clinging  texture — somewhat  low  in  the  neck  by  request 
of  Marietta,  who  had  helped  her  to  dress — Eugene  was  con- 


i8o  THE    "GENIUS' 

scious  of  her  emotional  perturbation.  He  himself  was  distraught, 
for  he  did  not  know  what  he  would  do — how  far  he  would  dare 
to  trust  himself.  He  was  always  troubled  when  dealing  with  his 
physical  passion,  for  it  was  a  raging  lion  at  times.  It  seemed 
to  overcome  him  quite  as  a  drug  might  or  a  soporific  fume.  He 
would  mentally  resolve  to  control  himself,  but  unless  he  instantly 
fled  there  was  no  hope,  and  he  did  not  seem  able  to  run  away. 
He  would  linger  and  parley,  and  in  a  few  moments  it  was  master 
and  he  was  following  its  behest  blindly,  desperately,  to  the  point 
almost  of  exposure  and  destruction. 

Tonight  when  Angela  came  back  he  was  cogitating,  wondering 
what  it  might  mean.  Should  he?  Would  he  marry  her?  Could 
he  escape  ?  They  sat  down  to  talk,  but  presently  he  drew  her  to 
him.  It  was  the  old  story — moment  after  moment  of  increasing 
feeling.  Presently  she,  from  the  excess  of  longing  and  waiting 
was  lost  to  all  sense  of  consideration.  And  he — 

"I  shall  have  to  go  away,  Eugene,"  she  pleaded,  when  he 
carried  her  recklessly  into  his  room,  "if  anything  happens.  I 
cannot  stay  here." 

"Don't  talk,"  he  said.    "You  can  come  to  me." 

"You  mean  it,  Eugene,  surely?"  she  begged. 

"As  sure  as  I'm  holding  you  here,"  he  replied. 

At  midnight  Angela  lifted  frightened,  wondering,  doubting 
eyes,  feeling  herself  the  most  depraved  creature.  Two  pictures 
were  in  her  mind  alternately  and  with  pendulum-like  reiteration. 
One  was  a  composite  of  a  marriage  altar  and  a  charming  New 
York  studio  with  friends  coming  in  to  see  them  much  as  he  had 
often  described  to  her.  The  other  wras  of  the  still  blue  waters 
of  Okoonee  with  herself  lying  there  pale  and  still.  Yes,  she 
would  die  if  he  did  not  marry  her  now.  Life  would  not  be 
worth  while.  She  would  not  force  him.  She  would  slip  out 
some  night  when  it  was  too  late  and  all  hope  had  been  abandoned 
— when  exposure  was  near — and  the  next  day  they  would  find 
her. 

Little  Marietta — how  she  would  cry.  And  old  Jotham — she 
could  see  him,  but  he  would  never  be  really  sure  of  the  truth. 
And  her  mother.  "Oh  God  in  heaven,"  she  thought,  "how 
hard  life  is!  How  terrible  it  can  be." 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

THE  atmosphere  of  the  house  after  this  night  seemed  charged 
with  reproach  to  Eugene,  although  it  took  on  no  semblance 
of  reality  in  either  look  or  word.  When  he  awoke  in  the  morn- 
ing and  looked  through  the  half  closed  shutters  to  the  green  world 
outside  he  felt  a  sense  of  freshness  and  of  shame.  It  was 
cruel  to  come  into  such  a  home  as  this  and  do  a  thing  as  mean  as 
he  had  done.  After  all,  philosophy  or  no  philosophy,  didn't 
a  fine  old  citizen  like  Jotham,  honest,  upright,  genuine  in  his 
moral  point  of  view  and  his  observance  of  the  golden  rule, 
didn't  he  deserve  better  from  a  man  whom  he  so  sincerely  ad- 
mired? Jotham  had  been  so  nice  to  him.  Their  conversations 
together  were  so  kindly  and  sympathetic.  Eugene  felt  that 
Jotham  believed  him  to  be  an  honest  man.  He  knew  he  had 
that  appearance.  He  was  frank,  genial,  considerate,  not  willing 
to  condemn  anyone — but  this  sex  question — that  was  where 
he  was  weak.  And  was  not  the  whole  world  keyed  to  that? 
Did  not  the  decencies  and  the  sanities  of  life  depend  on  right 
moral  conduct?  Was  not  the  world  dependent  on  how  the 
homes  were  run?  How  could  anyone  be  good  if  his  mother 
and  father  had  not  been  good  before  him?  How  could  the 
children  of  the  world  expect  to  be  anything  if  people  rushed 
here  and  there  holding  illicit  relations?  Take  his  sister  Myrtle, 
now — would  he  have  wanted  her  rifled  in  this  manner?  In 
the  face  of  this  question  he  was  not  ready  to  say  exactly  what  he 
wanted  or  was  willing  to  countenance.  Myrtle  was  a  free 
agent,  as  was  every  other  girl.  She  could  do  as  she  pleased. 
It  might  not  please  him  exactly  but — he  went  round  and  round 
from  one  problem  to  another,  trying  to  untie  this  Gordian 
knot.  One  thing,  this  home  had  appeared  sweet  and  clean  when 
he  came  into  it;  now  it  was  just  a  little  tarnished,  and  by  him! 
Or  was  it?  His  mind  was  always  asking  this  question.  There 
was  nothing  that  he  was  actually  accepting  as  true  any  more. 
He  was  going  round  in  a  ring  asking  questions  of  this  proposition 
and  that.  Are  you  true?  And  are  you  true?  And  are  you 
true?  And  all  the  while  he  was  apparently  not  getting  any- 
where. It  puzzled  him,  this  life.  Sometimes  it  shamed  him. 
This  deed  shamed  him.  And  he  asked  himself  whether  he  was 
wrong  to  be  ashamed  or  not.  Perhaps  he  was  just  foolish. 
Was  not  life  made  for  living,  not  worrying?  He  had  not 
created  his  passions  and  desires. 

181 


182  THE    "GENIUS" 

He  threw  open  the  shutters  and  there  was  the  bright  day. 
Everything  was  so  green  outside,  the  flowers  in  bloom,  the 
trees  casting  a  cool,  lovely  shade,  the  birds  twittering.  Bees 
were  humming.  He  could  smell  the  lilacs.  "Dear  God," 
he  exclaimed,  throwing  his  arms  above  his  head,  "How  lovely 
life  is!  How  beautiful!  Oh!"  He  drew  in  a  deep  breath  of 
the  flower  and  privet  laden  air.  If  only  he  could  live  always 
like  this — for  ever  and  ever. 

When  he  had  sponged  himself  with  cold  water  and  dressed, 
putting  on  a  soft  negligee  shirt  with  turn-down  collar  and 
dark  flowing  tie,  he  issued  forth  clean  and  fresh.  Angela  was 
there  to  greet  him.  Her  face  was  pale  but  she  looked  intensely 
sweet  because  of  her  sadness. 

"There,  there,"  he  said,  touching  her  chin,  "less  of  that 
now!" 

"I  told  them  that  I  had  a  headache,"  she  said.  "So  I  have. 
Do  you  understand?" 

"I  understand  your  headache,"  he  laughed.  "But  everything 
is  all  right — very  much  all  right.  Isn't  this  a  lovely  day!" 

"Beautiful,"  replied  Angela  sadly. 

"Cheer  up,"  he  insisted.  "Don't  worry.  Everything  is  coming 
out  fine."  He  walked  to  the  window  and  stared  out. 

"I'll  have  your  breakfast  ready  in  a  minute,"  she  said,  and, 
pressing  his  hand,  left  him. 

Eugene  went  out  to  the  hammock.  He  was  so  deliciously 
contented  and  joyous  now  that  he  saw  the  green  world  about 
him,  that  he  felt  that  everything  was  all  right  again.  The 
vigorous  blooming  forces  of  nature  everywhere  present  belied 
the  sense  of  evil  and  decay  to  which  mortality  is  so  readily 
subject.  He  felt  that  everything  was  justified  in  youth  and 
love,  particularly  where  mutual  affection  reigned.  Why  should 
he  not  take  Angela?  Why  should  they  not  be  together?  He 
went  in  to  breakfast  at  her  call,  eating  comfortably  of  the 
things  she  provided.  He  felt  the  easy  familiarity  and  graciousness 
of  the  conqueror.  Angela  on  her  part  felt  the  fear  and  un- 
certainty of  one  who  has  embarked  upon  a  dangerous  voyage. 
She  had  set  sail — whither?  At  what  port  would  she  land?  Was 
it  the  lake  or  his  studio?  Would  she  live  and  be  happy  or 
would  she  die  to  face  a  black  uncertainty?  Was  there  a  hell 
as  some  preachers  insisted?  Was  there  a  gloomy  place  of  lost 
souls  such  as  the  poets  described?  She  looked  into  the  face 
of  this  same  world  which  Eugene  found  so  beautiful  and  its 
very  beauty  trembled  with  forebodings  of  danger. 

And  there  were  days  and  days  yet  to  be  lived  of  this.     For 


THE    "GENIUS'  183 

all  her  fear,  once  having  tasted  of  the  forbidden  fruit,  it  was 
sweet  and  inviting.  She  could  not  go  near  Eugene,  nor  he  near 
her  but  this  flush  of  emotion  would  return. 

In  the  daylight  she  was  too  fearful,  but  when  the  night  came 
with  its  stars,  its  fresh  winds,  its  urge  to  desire,  her  fears  could 
not  stand  in  their  way.  Eugene  was  insatiable  and  she  was 
yearning.  The  slightest  touch  was  as  fire  to  tow.  She  yielded 
saying  she  would  not  yield. 

The  Blue  family  were  of  course  blissfully  ignorant  of  what 
was  happening.  It  seemed  so  astonishing  to  Angela  at  first  that 
the  very  air  did  not  register  her  actions  in  some  visible  way. 
That  they  should  be  able  thus  to  be  alone  was  not  so  remarkable, 
seeing  that  Eugene's  courtship  was  being  aided  and  abetted,  for 
her  sake,  but  that  her  lapse  should  not  be  exposed  by  some 
sinister  influence  seemed  strange — accidental  and  subtly  ominous. 
Something  would  happen — that  was  her  fear.  She  had  not  the 
courage  of  her  desire  or  need. 

By  the  end  of  the  week,  though  Eugene  was  less  ardent  and 
more  or  less  oppressed  by  the  seeming  completeness  with  which 
he  had  conquered,  he  was  not  ready  to  leave.  He  was  sorry 
to  go,  for  it  ended  a  honeymoon  of  sweetness  and  beauty — all 
the  more  wonderful  and  enchanting  because  so  clandestine — 
yet  he  was  beginning  to  be  aware  that  he  had  bound  himself  in 
chains  of  duty  and  responsibility.  Angela  had  thrown  herself 
on  his  mercy  and  his  sense  of  honor  to  begin  with.  She  had 
exacted  a  promise  of  marriage — not  urgently,  and  as  one  who 
sought  to  entrap  him,  but  with  the  explanation  that  otherwise 
life  must  end  in  disaster  for  her.  Eugene  could  look  in  her 
face  and  see  that  it  would.  And  now  that  he  had  had  his  way 
and  plumbed  the  depths  of  her  emotions  and  desires  he  had  a 
higher  estimate  of  her  personality.  Despite  the  fact  that  she 
was  older  than  he,  there  was  a  breath  of  youth  and  beauty  here 
that  held  him.  Her  body  was  exquisite.  Her  feeling  about  life 
and  love  was  tender  and  beautiful.  He  wished  he  could  make 
true  her  dreams  of  bliss  without  injury  to  himself. 

It  so  turned  out  that  as  his  visit  was  drawing  to  a  close 
Angela  decided  that  she  ought  to  go  to  Chicago,  for  there  were 
purchases  which  must  be  made.  Her  mother  wanted  her  to 
go  and  she  decided  that  she  would  go  with  Eugene.  This 
made  the  separation  easier,  gave  them  more  time  to  talk.  Her 
usual  plan  was  to  stay  with  her  aunt  and  she  was  going  there 
now. 

On  the  way  she  asked  over  and  over  what  he  would  think  of 
her  in  the  future;  whether  what  had  passed  would  not  lower 


184  THE    "GENIUS" 

her  in  his  eyes.  He  did  not  feel  that  it  would.  Once  she  said 
to  him  sadly — "only  death  or  marriage  can  help  me  now." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  he  asked,  her  yellow  head  pillowed 
on  his  shoulder,  her  dark  blue  eyes  looking  sadly  into  his. 

"That  if  you  don't  marry  me  I'll  have  to  kill  myself.  I  can't 
stay  at  home." 

He  thought  of  her  with  her  beautiful  body,  her  mass  of  soft 
hair  all  tarnished  in  death. 

"You  wouldn't  do  that?"  he  asked  unbelievingly. 

"Yes,  I  would,"  she  said  sadly.     "I  must,  I  will." 

"Hush,  Angel  Face,"  he  pleaded.  "You  won't  do  anything 
like  that.  You  won't  have  to.  I'll  marry  you — How  would 
you  do  it?" 

"Oh,  I've  thought  it  all  out,"  she  continued  gloomily.  "You 
know  that  little  lake.  I'd  drown  myself." 

"Don't,  sweetheart,"  he  pleaded.  "Don't  talk  that  way.  It's 
terrible.  You  won't  have  to  do  anything  like  that." 

To  think  of  her  under  the  waters  of  little  Okoonee,  with 
its  green  banks,  and  yellow  sandy  shores.  All  her  love  come 
to  this!  All  her  passion!  Her  death  would  be  upon  his  head 
and  he  could  not  stand  the  thought  of  that.  It  frightened  him. 
Such  tragedies  occasionally  appeared  in  the  papers  with  all  the 
pathetic  details  convincingly  set  forth,  but  this  should  not  enter 
his  life.  He  would  marry  her.  She  was  lovely  after  all.  He 
would  have  to.  He  might  as  well  make  up  his  mind  to  'hat 
now.  He  began  to  speculate  how  soon  it  might  be.  For  the 
sake  of  her  family  she  wanted  no  secret  marriage  but  one  which, 
if  they  could  not  be  present  at  it,  they  could  at  least  know  was 
taking  place.  She  was  willing  to  come  East — that  could  be 
arranged.  But  they  must  be  married.  Eugene  realized  the 
depth  of  her  conventional  feeling  so  keenly  that  it  never  oc- 
curred to  him  to  suggest  an  alternative.  She  would  not  con- 
sent, would  scorn  him  for  it.  The  only  alternative,  she  ap- 
peared to  believe,  was  death. 

One  evening — the  last — when  it  was  necessary  for  her  to  re- 
turn to  Blackwood,  and  he  had  seen  her  off  on  the  train,  her 
face  a  study  in  sadness,  he  rode  out  gloomily  to  Jackson  Park 
where  he  had  once  seen  a  beautiful  lake  in  the  moonlight.  When 
he  reached  there  the  waters  of  the  lake  were  still  suffused  and 
tinged  with  lovely  suggestions  of  lavender,  pink  and  silver,  for 
this  was  near  the  twenty-first  of  June.  The  trees  to  the  east 
and  west  were  dark.  The  sky  showed  a  last  blush  of  orange. 
Odours  were  about — warm  June  fragrance.  He  thought  now, 
as  he  walked  about  the  quiet  paths  where  the  sand  and  pebbles 


THE   "GENIUS"  185 

crunched  lightly  beneath  his  feet,  of  all  the  glory  of  this  won- 
derful week.  How  dramatic  was  life;  how  full  of  romance. 
This  love  of  Angela's,  how  beautiful.  Youth  was  with  him — 
love.  Would  he  go  on  to  greater  days  of  beauty  or  would  he 
stumble,  idling  his  time,  wasting  his  substance  in  riotous  liv- 
ing? Was  this  riotous  living?  Would  there  be  evil  fruition 
of  his  deeds?  Would  he  really  love  Angela  after  he  married 
her?  Would  they  be  happy? 

Thus  he  stood  by  the  bank  of  this  still  lake,  studying  the 
water,  marvelling  at  the  subtleties  of  reflected  radiance,  feeling 
the  artist's  joy  in  perfect  natural  beauty,  twining  and  inter- 
twining it  all  with  love,  death,  failure,  fame.  It  was  romantic 
to  think  that  in  such  a  lake,  if  he  were  unkind,  would  Angela  be 
found.  By  such  a  dark  as  was  now  descending  would  all  her 
bright  dreams  be  submerged.  It  would  be  beautiful  as  romance. 
He  could  imagine  a  great  artist  like  Daudet  or  Balzac  making 
a  great  story  out  of  it.  It  was  even  a  subject  for  some  form  of 
romantic  expression  in  art.  Poor  Angela!  If  he  were  a  great 
portrait  painter  he  would  paint  her.  He  thought  of  some  treat- 
ment of  her  in  the  nude  with  that  mass  of  hair  of  hers  falling 
about  her  neck  and  breasts.  It  would  be  beautiful.  Should  he 
marry  her?  Yes,  though  he  was  not  sure  of  the  outcome,  he 
must.  It  might  be  a  mistake  but — 

He  stared  at  the  fading  surface  of  the  lake,  silver,  lavender, 
leaden  gray.  Overhead  a  vivid  star  was  already  shining.  How 
would  it  be  with  her  if  she  were  really  below  those  still  waters? 
How  would  it  be  with  him?  It  would  be  too  desperate,  too 
regretful.  No,  he  must  marry  her.  It  was  in  this  mood  that 
he  returned  to  the  city,  the  ache  of  life  in  his  heart.  It  was  in 
this  mood  that  he  secured  his  grip  from  the  hotel  and  sought  the 
midnight  train  for  New  York.  For  once  Ruby,  Miriam,  Chris- 
tina, were  forgotten.  He  was  involved  in  a  love  drama  which 
meant  life  or  death  to  Angela,  peace  or  reproach  of  conscience 
to  himself  in  the  future.  He  could  not  guess  what  the  outcome 
would  be,  but  he  felt  that  he  must  marry  her — how  soon  he 
could  not  say.  Circumstances  would  dictate  that.  From  present 
appearances  it  must  be  immediately.  He  must  see  about  a  studio, 
announce  the  news  of  his  departure  to  Smite  and  MacHugh; 
make  a  special  effort  to  further  his  art  ambitions  so  that  he  and 
Angela  would  have  enough  to  live  on.  He  had  talked  so  glow- 
ingly of  his  art  life  that  now,  when  the  necessity  for  demonstrat- 
ing it  was  at  hand,  he  was  troubled  as  to  what  the  showing 
might  be.  The  studio  had  to  be  attractive.  He  would  need 
to  introduce  his  friends.  All  the  way  back  to  New  York  he 


186  THE    "GENIUS" 

turned  this  over  in  his  mind — Smite,  MacHugh,  Miriam,  Norma, 
Wheeler,  Christina — what  would  Christina  think  if  she  ever  re- 
turned to  New  York  and  found  him  married?  There  was  no 
question  but  that  there  was  a  difference  between  Angela  and 
these.  It  was  something — a  matter  of  courage — more  soul, 
more  daring,  more  awareness,  perhaps — something.  When  they 
saw  her  would  they  think  he  had  made  a  mistake,  would  they 
put  him  down  as  a  fool?  MacHugh  was  going  with  a  girl, 
but  she  was  a  different  type — intellectual,  smart.  He  thought 
and  thought,  but  he  came  back  to  the  same  conclusion  always. 
He  would  have  to  marry  her.  There  was  no  way  out.  He 
would  have  to. 


CHAPTER   XXVIII 

THE  studio  of  Messrs.  Smite,  MacHugh  and  Witla  in 
Waverley  Place  was  concerned  the  following  October  with 
a  rather  picturesque  event.  Even  in  the  city  the  time  when  the 
leaves  begin  to  yellow  and  fall  brings  a  sense  of  melancholy, 
augmented  by  those  preliminaries  of  winter,  gray,  lowery  days, 
with  scraps  of  paper,  straws,  bits  of  wood  blown  about  by  gusty 
currents  of  air  through  the  streets,  making  it  almost  disagree- 
able to  be  abroad.  The  fear  of  cold  and  storm  and  suffering 
among  those  who  have  little  was  already  apparent.  Apparent 
too  was  the  air  of  renewed  vitality  common  to  those  who  have 
spent  an  idle  summer  and  are  anxious  to  work  again.  Shopping 
and  marketing  and  barter  and  sale  were  at  high  key.  The 
art  world,  the  social  world,  the  manufacturing  world,  the  pro- 
fessional worlds  of  law,  medicine,  finance,  literature,  were  bub- 
bling with  a  feeling  of  the  necessity  to  do  and  achieve.  The 
whole  city,  stung  by  the  apprehension  of  winter,  had  an  atmo- 
sphere of  emprise  and  energy. 

In  this  atmosphere,  with  a  fairly  clear  comprehension  of  the 
elements  which  were  at  work  making  the  colour  of  the  life  about 
him,  was  Eugenie,  digging  away  at  the  task  he  had  set  himself. 
Since  leaving  Angela  he  had  come  to  the  conclusion  that  he 
must  complete  the  jointings  for  the  exhibition  which  had  been 
running  in  his  mind  during  the  last  two  years.  There  was  no  other 
way  for  him  to  make  a  notable  impression — he  saw  that.  Since 
he  had  returned  he  had  gone  through  various  experiences:  the 
experience  of  having  Angela  tell  him  that  she  was  sure  there 
wras  something  wrong  with  her;  an  impression  sincere  enough, 
but  based  on  an  excited  and  overwrought  imagination  of  evil  to 
follow,  and  having  no  foundation  in  fact.  Eugene  was  as  yet, 
despite  his  several  experiences,  not  sufficiently  informed  in  such 
affairs  to  know.  His  lack  of  courage  would  have  delayed  him 
from  asking  if  he  had  known.  In  the  next  place,  facing  this 
crisis,  he  had  declared  that  he  would  marry  her,  and  because  of 
her  distressed  condition  he  thought  he  might  as  well  do  it  now. 
He  had  wanted  time  to  do  some  of  the  pictures  he  was  working 
on,  to  take  in  a  little  money  for  drawing,  to  find  a  suitable  place 
to  live  in.  He  had  looked  at  various  studios  in  various  sections 
of  the  city  and  had  found  nothing,  as  yet,  which  answered  to 
his  taste  or  his  purse.  Anything  with  a  proper  light,  a  bath, 

187 


i88  THE    "GENIUS'1 

a  suitable  sleeping  room,  and  an  inconspicuous  chamber  whicli 
might  be  turned  into  a  kitchen,  was  difficult  to  find.  Prices 
were  high,  ranging  from  fifty  to  one  hundred  and  twenty-five 
and  one  hundred  and  fifty  a  month.  There  were  some  new 
studios  being  erected  for  the  rich  loungers  and  idlers  which 
commanded,  so  he  understood,  three  or  four  thousand  dollars  a 
year.  He  wondered  if  he  should  ever  attain  to  any  such  mag- 
nificence through  his  art. 

Again,  in  taking  a  studio  for  Angela  and  himself  there  was 
the  matter  of  furniture.  The  studio  he  had  with  Smite  and 
MacHugh  was  more  or  less  of  a  camp.  The  work  room  was 
bare  of  carpets  or  rugs.  The  two  folding  beds  and  the  cot  which 
graced  their  individual  chambers  were  heirlooms  from  ancient 
predecessors — substantial  but  shabby.  Beyond  various  draw- 
ings, three  easels,  and  a  chest  of  drawers  for  each,  there  was 
no  suitable  household  equipment.  A  woman  came  twice  a  week 
to  clean,  send  out  the  linen,  and  make  up  the  beds. 

To  live  with  Angela  required,  in  his  judgment,  many  and 
much  more  significant  things.  His  idea  of  a  studio  was  some 
such  one  as  that  now  occupied  by  Miriam  Finch  or  Norma  Whit- 
more.  There  ought  to  be  furniture  of  a  period — old  Flemish 
or  Colonial,  Heppelwhite  or  Chippendale  or  Sheraton,  such  as 
he  saw  occasionally  knocking  about  in  curio  shops  and  second 
hand  stores.  It  could  be  picked  up  if  he  had  time.  He  was 
satisfied  that  Angela  knew  nothing  of  these  things.  There 
ought  to  be  rugs,  hangings  of  tapestry,  bits  of  brass,  pewter, 
copper,  old  silver,  if  he  could  afford  it.  He  had  an  idea  of  some 
day  obtaining  a  figure  of  the  Christ  in  brass  or  plaster,  hung  upon 
a  rough  cross  of  walnut  or  teak,  which  he  could  hang  or  stand 
in  some  corner  as  one  might  a  shrine  and  place  before  it  two  great 
candlesticks  with  immense  candles  smoked  and  dripping  with 
wax.  These  lighted  in  a  dark  studio,  with  the  outlines  of  the 
Christ  flickering  in  the  shadows  behind  would  give  the  desired 
atmosphere  to  his  studio.  Such  an  equipment  as  he  dreamed 
of  would  have  ccst  in  the  neighborhood  of  two  thousand  dol- 
lars. 

Of  course  this  was  not  to  be  thought  of  at  this  period.  He 
had  no  more  than  that  in  ready  cash.  He  was  writing  to  Angela 
about  his  difficulties  in  finding  a  suitable  place,  when  he  heard 
of  a  studio  in  Washington  Square  South,  which  its  literary  pos- 
sessor was  going  to  quit  for  the  winter.  It  wras,  so  he  under- 
stood, handsomely  furnished,  and  was  to  be  let  for  the  rent  of 
the  studio.  The  owner  wanted  someone  who  would  take  care 
of  it  by  occupying  it  for  him  until  he  should  return  the  follow- 


THE    "GENIUS"  189 

Ing  fall.  Eugene  hurried  round  to  look  at  it  and,  taken  with 
the  location,  the  appearance  of  the  square  from  the  windows,  the 
beauty  of  the  furnishings,  felt  that  he  would  like  to  live  here. 
This  would  be  the  way  to  introduce  Angela  to  New  York. 
This  would  be  the  first  and  proper  impression  to  give  her.  Here, 
as  in  every  well  arranged  studio  he  had  yet  seen  wrere  books, 
pictures,  bits  of  statuary,  implements  of  copper  and  some  few 
of  silver.  There  was  a  great  fish  net  dyed  green  and  spangled 
with  small  bits  of  mirror  to  look  like  scales  which  hung  as  a 
veil  between  the  studio  proper  and  an  alcove.  There  was  a 
piano  done  in  black  walnut,  and  odd  pieces  of  furniture,  Mis- 
sion, Flemish,  Venetian  of  the  sixteenth  century  and  English 
of  the  seventeenth,  which,  despite  that  diversity  offered  a  unity 
of  appearance  and  a  harmony  of  usefulness.  There  was  one 
bed  room,  a  bath,  and  a  small  partitioned  section  which  could 
be  used  as  a  kitchen.  With  a  few  of  his  pictures  judiciously 
substituted  he  could  see  a  perfect  abode  here  for  himself  and 
his  wife.  The  rent  was  fifty  dollars.  He  decided  that  he 
would  risk  it. 

Having  gone  so  far  as  to  indicate  that  he  would  take  it — he 
was  made  to  feel  partially  resigned  to  marriage  by  the  very 
appearance  of  this  place — he  decided  that  he  would  marry  in  Oc- 
tober. Angela  could  come  to  New  York  or  Buffalo — she  had 
never  seen  Niagara  Falls — and  they  could  be  married  there. 
She  had  spoken  recently  of  visiting  her  brother  at  West  Point. 
Then  they  could  come  here  and  settle  down.  He  decided  that 
this  must  be  so,  wrote  to  her  to  that  effect,  and  vaguely 
hinted  to  Smite  and  MacHugh  that  he  might  get  married 
shortly. 

This  was  a  great  blow  to  his  partners  in  art,  for  Eugene  was 
very  popular  with  them.  He  had  the  habit,  with  those  he  liked, 
of  jesting  constantly.  "Look  at  the  look  of  noble  determination 
on  Smite's  brow  this  morning,"  he  would  comment  cheerfully 
on  getting  up;  or  "MacHugh,  you  lazy  lout,  crawl  out  and 
earn  your  living." 

MacHugh's  nose,  eyes  and  ears  would  be  comfortably  buried 
in  the  folds  of  a  blanket. 

"These  hack  artists,"  Eugene  would  sigh  disconsolately. 
"There's  not  much  to  be  made  out  of  them.  A  pile  of  straw 
and  a  couple  of  boiled  potatoes  a  day  is  all  they  need." 

"Aw,  cut  it  out,"  MacHugh  would  grunt. 

"To  hell,  to  hell,  I  yell,  I  yell,"  would  come  from  somewhere 
in  the  voice  of  Smite. 

"If  it  weren't  for  me,"  Eugene  would  go  on,  "God  knows 


190  THE    "GENIUS" 

what  would  become  of  this  place.  A  lot  of  farmers  and  fisher- 
men trying  to  be  artists." 

"And  laundry  wagon  drivers,  don't  forget  that,"  MacHugh 
would  add,  sitting  up  and  rubbing  his  tousled  head,  for  Eugene 
had  related  some  of  his  experiences.  "Don't  forget  the  contri- 
bution made  by  the  American  Steam  Laundry  Company  to  the 
world  of  true  art." 

"Collars  and  cuffs  I  would  have  you  know  is  artistic,"  Eu- 
gene at  once  declared  with  mock  dignity,  "whereas  plows  and 
fish  is  trash." 

Sometimes  this  "kidding"  would  continue  for  a  quarter  of 
an  hour  at  a  stretch,  when  some  one  remark  really  brighter  than 
any  other  would  dissolve  the  whole  in  laughter.  Work  began 
after  breakfast,  to  which  they  usually  sallied  forth  together, 
and  would  continue  unbroken  save  for  necessary  engagements 
or  periods  of  entertainment,  lunch  and  so  on,  until  five  in  the 
afternoon. 

They  had  worked  together  now  for  a  couple  of  years.  They 
had,  by  experience,  learned  of  each  other's  reliability,  courtesy, 
kindness  and  liberality.  Criticism  was  free,  generous,  and  sin- 
cerely intended  to  be  helpful.  Pleasure  trips,  such  as  walks  on 
grey,  lowery  days,  or  in  rain  or  brilliant  sunshine,  or  trips  to 
Coney  Island,  Far  Rockaway,  the  theatres,  the  art  exhibitions,  the 
odd  and  peculiar  restaurants  of  different  nationalities,  were  al- 
ways undertaken  in  a  spirit  of  joyous  camaraderie.  Jesting 
as  to  morality,  their  respective  abilities,  their  tendencies  and 
characteristics  were  all  taken  and  given  in  good  part.  At  one 
time  it  would  be  Joseph  Smite  who  would  come  in  for  a  united 
drubbing  and  excoriation  on  the  part  of  Eugene  and  MacHugh. 
At  another  time  Eugene  or  MacHugh  would  be  the  victim,  the 
other  two  joining  forces  vigorously.  Art,  literature,  personali- 
ties, phases  of  life,  philosophy,  were  discussed  by  turn.  As  with 
Jerry  Mathews,  Eugene  had  learned  of  new  things  from  these 
men — the  life  of  fisher-folk,  and  the  characteristics  of  the  ocean 
from  Joseph  Smite;  the  nature  and  spirit  of  the  great  West 
from  MacHugh.  Each  appeared  to  have  an  inexhaustible  fund 
of  experiences  and  reminiscences  which  refreshed  and  entertained 
the  trio  day  fey  day  year  in  and  year  out.  They  were  at  their 
best  strolling  through  some  exhibit  or  preliminary  view  of  an 
art  collection  offered  for  sale,  when  all  their  inmost  convictions 
of  what  was  valuable  and  enduring  in  art  would  come  to  the 
surface.  All  three  were  intolerant  of  reputations  as  such,  but 
were  strong  for  individual  merit  whether  it  carried  a  great  name 
or  not.  They  were  constantly  becoming  acquainted  with  the 


THE    "GENIUS"  191 

work  of  some  genius  little  known  here,  and  celebrating  his 
talents,  each  to  the  others.  Thus  Monet,  Degas,  Manet,  Ribera, 
Monticelli,  by  turns  came  up  for  examination  and  praise. 

When  Eugene  then,  toward  the  end  of  September,  announced 
that  he  might  be  leaving  them  shortly,  there  was  a  united  wail 
of  opposition.  Joseph  Smite  was  working  on  a  sea  scene  at 
the  time,  doing  his  best  to  get  the  proper  colour  harmony  be- 
tween the  worm-eaten  deck  of  a  Gold  Coast  trading  ship,  a 
half  naked  West  Coast  negro  handling  a  broken  wheel,  and  a 
mass  of  blue  black  undulations  in  the  distance  which  repre- 
sented the  boundless  sea. 

"G'wan!"  said  Smite,  incredulously,  for  he  assumed  that  Eu- 
gene was  jesting.  There  had  been  a  steady  stream  of  letters 
issuing  from  somewhere  in  the  West  and  delivered  here  week 
after  week,  as  there  had  been  for  MacHugh,  but  this  by  now 
was  a  commonplace,  and  apparently  meant  nothing.  "You 
marry?  What  the  hell  do  you  want  to  get  married  for?  A 
fine  specimen  you  will  make!  I'll  come  around  and  tell  your 
wife." 

"Sure,"  returned  Eugene.  "It's  true,  I  may  get  married." 
He  was  amused  at  Smite's  natural  assumption  that  it  was  a 
jest. 

"Stow  that,"  called  MacHugh,  from  his  easel.  He  was  work- 
ing on  a  country  corner  picture,  a  group  of  farmers  before  a 
country  post  office.  "You  don't  want  to  break  up  this  shack, 
do  you?"  Both  of  these  men  were  fond  of  Eugene.  They 
found  him  inspiring,  helpful,  always  intensely  vigorous  and 
apparently  optimistic. 

"I  don't  want  to  break  up  any  shack.  But  haven't  I  a  right 
to  get  married?" 

"I  vote  no,  by  God!"  said  Smite  emphatically.  "You'll 
never  go  out  of  here  with  my  consent.  Peter,  are  we  going  to 
stand  for  anything  like  that?" 

"We  are  not,"  replied  MacHugh.  "We'll  call  out  the  reserves 
if  he  tries  any  game  like  that  on  us.  I'll  prefer  charges  against 
him.  Who's  the  lady,  Eugene?" 

"I  bet  I  know,"  suggested  Smite.  "He's  been  running  up 
to  Twenty-sixth  Street  pretty  regularly."  Joseph  was  thinking 
of  Miriam  Finch,  to  whom  Eugene  had  introduced  both  him  and 
MacHugh. 

"Nothing  like  that,  surely,"  inquired  MacHugh,  looking 
over  at  Eugene  to  see  if  it  possibly  could  be  so. 

"It's  all  true,  fellers,"  replied  Eugene,  " — as  God  is  my 
judge.  I'm  going  to  leave  you  soon." 


192  THE    "GENIUS  " 

"You're  not  really  talking  seriously,  are  you,  Witla?"  in- 
quired Joseph  soberly. 

"I  am,  Joe,"  said  Eugene  quietly.  He  was  studying  the 
perspective  of  his  sixteenth  New  York  view, — three  engines  com- 
ing abreast  into  a  great  yard  of  cars.  The  smoke,  the  haze, 
the  dingy  reds  and  blues  and  yellows  and  greens  of  kicked 
about  box  cars  were  showing  with  beauty — the  vigor  and  beauty 
of  raw  reality. 

"Soon?"  asked  MacHugh,  equally  quietly.  He  was  feeling 
that  touch  of  pensiveness  which  comes  with  a  sense  of  vanish- 
ing pleasures. 

"I  think  some  time  in  October,  very  likely,"  replied  Eugene. 

"Jesus  Christ,  I'm  sorry  to  hear  that,"  put  in  Smite. 

He  laid  down  his  brush  and  strolled  over  to  the  window. 
MacHugh,  less  expressive  in  extremes,  worked  on  medatively. 

"When'd  you  reach  that  conclusion,  Witla?"  he  asked  after 
a  time. 

"Oh,  I've  been  thinking  it  over  for  a  long  time,  Peter," 
he  returned.  "I  should  really  have  married  before  if  I  could 
have  afforded  it.  I  know  how  things  are  here  or  I  wouldn't 
have  sprung  this  so  suddenly.  I'll  hold  up  my  end  on  the  rent 
here  until  you  get  someone  else." 

"To  hell  with  the  rent,"  said  Smite.  "We  don't  want  any- 
one else,  do  we,  Peter?  We  didn't  have  anyone  else  before." 

Smite  was  rubbing  his  square  chin  and  contemplating  his  part- 
ner as  if  they  were  facing  a  catastrophe. 

"There's  no  use  talking  about  that,"  said  Peter.  "You  know 
we  don't  care  about  the  rent.  Do  you  mind  telling  us  who 
you're  going  to  marry?  Do  we  know  her?" 

"You  don't,"  returned  Eugene.  "She's  out  in  Wisconsin. 
It's  the  one  who  writes  the  letters.  Angela  Blue  is  her 
name." 

"Well,  here's  to  Angela  Blue,  by  God,  say  I,"  said  Smite, 
recovering  his  spirits  and  picking  up  his  paint  brush  from  his 
board  to  hold  aloft.  "Here's  to  Mrs.  Eugene  Witla,  and  may 
she  never  reef  a  sail  to  a  storm  or  foul  an  anchor,  as  they  say 
up  Nova  Scotia  way." 

"Right  oh,"  added  MacHugh,  catching  the  spirit  of  Smite's 
generous  attitude.  "Them's  my  sentiments.  When  d'you 
expect  to  get  married  really,  Eugene?" 

"Oh  I  haven't  fixed  the  time  exactly.  About  November  first, 
I  should  say.  I  hope  you  won't  say  anything  about  it  though, 
either  of  you.  I  don't  want  to  go  through  any  explanations." 

"We  won't,  but  it's  tough,  you  old  walrus.     Why  the  hell 


THE    "GENIUS'8  193 

didn't  you  give  us  time  to  think  it  over?  You're  a  fine  jelly- 
fish, you  are." 

He  poked  him  reprimandingly  in  the  ribs. 

"There  isn't  anyone  any  more  sorry  than  I  am,"  said  Eugene, 
"I  hate  to  leave  here,  I  do.  But  we  won't  lose  track  of  each 
other.  I'll  still  be  around  here." 

"Where  do  you  expect  to  live?  Here  in  the  city?"  asked 
MacHugh,  still  a  little  gloomy. 

"Sure.  Right  here  in  Washington  Square.  Remember  that 
Dexter  studio  Weaver  was  telling  about?  The  one  in  the  third 
floor  at  sixty-one?  That's  it." 

"You  don't  say!"  exclaimed  Smite.  "You're  in  right.  How'd 
you  get  that?" 

Eugene  explained. 

"Well,  you  sure  are  a  lucky  man,"  observed  MacHugh.  "Your 
wife  ought  to  like  that.  I  suppose  there'll  be  a  cozy  corner  for 
an  occasional  strolling  artist?" 

"No  farmers,  no  sea-faring  men,  no  artistic  hacks — nothing!" 
declared  Eugene  dramatically. 

"You  to  Hell,"  said  Smite.     "When  Mrs.  Witla  sees  us—" 

"She'll  wish  she'd  never  come  to  New  York,"  put  in  Eu- 
gene. 

"She'll  wish  she'd  seen  us  first,"  said  MacHugh. 


BOOK  II 
THE    STRUGGLE 


CHAPTER   I 

THE  marriage  ceremony  between  Eugene  and  Angela  was 
solemnized  at  Buffalo  on  November  second.  As  planned, 
Marietta  was  with  them.  They  would  go,  the  three  of  them,  to 
the  Falls,  and  to  West  Point,  where  the  girls  would  see  their 
brother  David,  and  then  Marietta  would  return  to  tell  the  fam- 
ily about  it.  Naturally,  under  the  circumstances,  it  was  a  very 
simple  affair,  for  there  were  no  congratulations  to  go  through 
with  and  no  gifts — at  least  immediately — to  consider  and  ac- 
knowledge. Angela  had  explained  to  her  parents  and  friends 
that  it  was  quite  impossible  for  Eugene  to  come  West  at  this 
time.  She  knew  that  he  objected  to  a  public  ceremony  where 
he  would  have  to  run  the  gauntlet  of  all  her  relatives,  and  so 
she  was  quite  willing  to  meet  him  in  the  East  and  be  married 
there.  Eugene  had  not  troubled  to  take  his  family  into  his  con- 
fidence as  yet.  He  had  indicated  on  his  last  visit  home  that  he 
might  get  married,  and  that  Angela  was  the  girl  in  question, 
but  since  Myrtle  was  the  only  one  of  his  family  who  had  seen 
her  and  she  was  now  in  Ottumwa,  Iowa,  they  could  not  recall 
anything  about  her.  Eugene's  father  was  a  little  disappointed, 
for  he  expected  to  hear  some  day  that  Eugene  had  made  a  bril- 
liant match.  His  boy,  whose  pictures  were  in  the  magazines  so 
frequently  and  whose  appearance  was  so  generally  distinguished, 
ought  in  New  York,  where  opportunities  abounded,  to  marry  an 
heiress  at  least.  It  was  all  right  of  course  if  Eugene  wanted  to 
marry  a  girl  from  the  country,  but  it  robbed  the  family  of  a 
possible  glory. 

The  spirit  of  this  marriage  celebration,  so  far  as  Eugene  was 
concerned,  was  hardly  right.  There  was  the  consciousness,  al- 
ways with  him,  of  his  possibly  making  a  mistake ;  the  feeling  that 
he  was  being  compelled  by  circumstances  and  his  own  weakness 
to  fulfil  an  agreement  which  might  better  remain  unfulfilled. 
His  only  urge  was  his  desire,  in  the  gratification  of  which  he 
might  find  compensation,  for  saving  Angela  from  an  unhappy 
spinsterhood.  It  was  a  thin  reed  to  lean  on;  there  could  be  no 
honest  satisfaction  in  it.  Angela  was  sweet,  devoted,  pains- 
taking in  her  attitude  toward  life,  toward  him,  toward  every- 
thing with  which  she  came  in  contact,  but  she  was  not  what  he 
had  always  fancied  his  true  mate  would  be — the  be  all  and  the 
end  all  of  his  existence.  Where  was  the  divine  fire  which  on 

197 


i98  THE    "GENIUS" 

this  occasion  should  have  animated  him;  the  lofty  thoughts  of 
future  companionship ;  that  intense  feeling  he  had  first  felt  about 
her  when  he  had  called  on  her  at  her  aunt's  house  in  Chicago? 
Something  had  happened.  Was  it  that  he  had  cheapened  his 
ideal  by  too  close  contact  with  it?  Had  he  taken  a  beautiful 
flower  and  trailed  it  in  the  dust?  Was  passion  all  there  was  to 
marriage?  Or  was  it  that  true  marriage  was  something  higher — 
a  union  of  fine  thoughts  and  feelings?  Did  Angela  share  his 
with  him?  Angela  did  have  exalted  feelings  and  moods  at 
times.  They  were  not  sensibly  intellectual — but  she  seemed  to 
respond  to  the  better  things  in  music  and  to  some  extent  in  litera- 
ture. She  knew  nothing  about  art,  but  she  was  emotionally  re- 
sponsive to  many  fine  things.  Why  was  not  this  enough  to  make 
life  durable  and  comfortable  between  them?  Was  it  not  really 
enough?  After  he  had  gone  over  all  these  points,  there  was 
still  the  thought  that  there  was  something  wrong  in  this  union. 
Despite  his  supposedly  laudable  conduct  in  fulfilling  an  obliga- 
tion which,  in  a  way,  he  had  helped  create  or  created,  he  was 
not  happy.  He  went  to  his  marriage  as  a  man  goes  to  fulfil 
an  uncomfortable  social  obligation.  It  might  turn  out  that  he 
would  have  an  enjoyable  and  happy  life  and  it  might  turn  out 
very  much  otherwise.  He  could  not  face  the  weight  and  sig- 
nificance of  the  social  theory  that  this  was  for  life — that  if  he 
married  her  today  he  would  have  to  live  with  her  all  the  rest 
of  his  days.  He  knew  that  was  the  generally  accepted  interpre- 
tation of  marriage,  but  it  did  not  appeal  to  him.  Union  ought 
in  his  estimation  to  be  based  on  a  keen  desire  to  live  together  and 
on  nothing  else.  He  did  not  feel  the  obligation  which  attaches 
to  children,  for  he  had  never  had  any  and  did  not  feel  the  desire 
for  any.  A  child  was  a  kind  of  a  nuisance.  Marriage  was  a 
trick  of  Nature's  by  which  you  were  compelled  to  carry  out  her 
scheme  of  race  continuance.  Love  was  a  lure ;  desire  a  scheme  of 
propagation  devised  by  the  way.  Nature,  the  race  spirit,  used 
you  as  you  would  use  a  work-horse  to  pull  a  load.  The  load  in 
this  case  was  race  progress  and  man  was  the  victim.  He  did 
not  think  he  owed  anything  to  nature,  or  to  this  race  spirit. 
He  had  not  asked  to  come  here.  He  had  not  been  treated  as 
generously  as  he  might  have  been  since  he  arrived.  Why  should 
he  do  what  nature  bid? 

When  he  met  Angela  he  kissed  her  fondly,  for  of  course  the 
sight  of  her  aroused  the  feeling  of  desire  which  had  been  run- 
ning in  his  mind  so  keenly  for  some  time.  Since  last  seeing  An- 
gela he  had  touched  no  woman,  principally  because  the  right 
one  had  not  presented  herself  and  because  the  memories  and  the 


THE    "GENIUS"  199 

anticipations  in  connection  with  Angela  were  so  close.  Now 
that  he  was  with  her  again  the  old  fire  came  over  him  and  he 
was  eager  for  the  completion  of  the  ceremony.  He  had  seen  to 
the  marriage  license  in  the  morning, — and  from  the  train  on 
which  Angela  and  Marietta  arrived  they  proceeded  in  a  car- 
riage direct  to  the  Methodist  preacher.  The  ceremony  which 
meant  so  much  to  Angela  meant  practically  nothing  to  him.  It 
seemed  a  silly  formula — this  piece  of  paper  from  the  marriage 
clerk's  office  and  this  instructed  phraseology  concerning  "love, 
honor  and  cherish."  Certainly  he  would  Jove,  honor  and 
cherish  if  it  were  possible — if  not,  then  not.  Angela,  with  the 
marriage  ring  on  her  finger  and  the  words  "with  this  ring  I  thee 
wed"  echoing  in  her  ears,  felt  that  all  her  dreams  had  come  true. 
Now  she  was,  really,  truly,  Mrs.  Eugene  Witla.  She  did  not 
need  to  worry  about  drowning  herself,  or  being  disgraced,  or 
enduring  a  lonely,  commiserated  old  age.  She  was  the  wife  of 
an  artist — a  rising  one,  and  she  was  going  to  live  in  New  York. 
What  a  future  stretched  before  her!  Eugene  loved  her  after 
all.  She  imagined  she  could  see  that.  His  slowness  in  marrying 
her  was  due  to  the  difficulty  of  establishing  himself  properly. 
Otherwise  he  would  have  done  it  before.  They  drove  to  the 
Iroquois  hotel  and  registered  as  man  and  wife,  securing  a  sepa- 
rate room  for  Marietta.  The  latter  pretending  an  urgent  desire 
to  bathe  after  her  railroad  journey,  left  them,  promising  to  be 
ready  in  time  for  dinner.  Eugene  and  Angela  were  finally 
alone. 

He  now  saw  how,  in  spite  of  his  fine  theories,  his  previous 
experiences  with  Angela  had  deadened  to  an  extent  his  joy  in 
this  occasion.  He  had  her  again  it  was  true.  His  desire  that  he 
had  thought  of  so  keenly  was  to  be  gratified,  but  there  was  no 
mystery  connected  with  it.  His  real  nuptials  had  been  cele- 
brated at  Blackwood  months  before.  This  was  the  commonplace 
of  any  marriage  relation.  It  wras  intense  and  gratifying,  but 
the  original,  wonderful  mystery  of  unexplored  character  was 
absent.  He  eagerly  took  her  in  his  arms,  but  there  was  more 
of  crude  desire  than  of  awed  delight  in  the  whole  proceeding. 

Nevertheless  Angela  was  sweet  to  him.  Hers  was  a  loving 
disposition  and  Eugene  was  the  be  all  and  end  all  of  her  love. 
His  figure  was  of  heroic  proportions  to  her.  His  talent  was  di- 
vine fire.  No  one  could  know  as  much  as  Eugene,  of  course! 
No  one  could  be  as  artistic.  True,  he  was  not  as  practical  as 
some  men — her  brothers  and  brothers-in-law,  for  instance — but 
he  was  a  man  of  genius.  Why  should  he  be  practical  ?  She  was 
'  beginning  to  think  already  of  how  thoroughly  she  would  help 


200  THE    "GENIUS" 

him  shape  his  life  toward  success — what  a  good  wife  she  would 
be  to  him.  Her  training  as  a  teacher,  her  experience  as  a  buyer, 
her  practical  judgment,  would  help  him  so  much.  They  spent 
the  two  hours  before  dinner  in  renewed  transports  and  then 
dressed  and  made  their  public  appearance.  Angela  had  had 
designed  a  number  of  dresses  for  this  occasion,  representing  the 
saving  of  years,  and  tonight  at  dinner  she  looked  exceptionally 
pretty  in  a  dress  of  black  silk  with  neck  piece  and  half  sleeves 
of  mother-of-pearl  silk,  set  off  with  a  decoration  of  seed  pearls 
and  black  beads  in  set  designs.  Marietta,  in  a  pale  pink  silk  of 
peachblow  softness  of  hue  with  short  sleeves  and  a  low  cut 
bodice  was,  with  all  her  youth  and  natural  plumpness  and  gaiety 
of  soul,  ravishing.  Now  that  she  had  Angela  safely  married, 
she  was  under  no  obligations  to  keep  out  of  Eugene's  way  nor 
to  modify  her  charms  in  order  that  her  sister's  might  shine.  She 
was  particularly  ebullient  in  her  mood  and  Eugene  could  not 
help  contrasting,  even  in  this  hour,  the  qualities  of  the  two  sis- 
ters. Marietta's  smile,  her  humor,  her  unconscious  courage, 
contrasted  so  markedly  with  Angela's  quietness. 

The  luxuries  of  the  modern  hotel  have  become  the  common- 
places of  ordinary  existence,  but  to  the  girls  they  were  still 
strange  enough  to  be  impressive.  To  Angela  they  were  a  fore- 
taste of  what  was  to  be  an  enduring  higher  life.  These  car- 
pets, hangings,  elevators,  waiters,  seemed  in  their  shabby  ma- 
terialism to  speak  of  superior  things. 

One  day  in  Buffalo,  with  a  view  of  the  magnificent  falls  at 
Niagara,  and  then  came  West  Point  with  a  dress  parade  acci- 
dentally provided  for  a  visiting  general  and  a  ball  for  the  ca- 
dets. Marietta,  because  of  her  charm  and  her  brother's  popu- 
larity, found  herself  so  much  in  demand  at  West  Point  that 
she  extended  her  stay  to  a  week,  leaving  Eugene  and  Angela  free 
to  come  to  New  York  together  and  have  a  little  time  to  them- 
selves. They  only  stayed  long  enough  to  see  Marietta  safely 
housed  and  then  came  to  the  city  and  the  apartment  in  Wash- 
ington Square. 

It  was  dark  when  they  arrived  and  Angela  was  impressed 
with  the  glittering  galaxy  of  lights  the  city  presented  across  the 
North  River  from  Forty-second  Street.  She  had  no  idea  of  the 
nature  of  the  city,  but  as  the  cab  at  Eugene's  request  turned  into 
Broadway  at  Forty-second  Street  and  clattered  with  interrupted 
progress  south  to  Fifth  Avenue  she  had  her  first  glimpse  of  that 
tawdry  world  which  subsequently  became  known  as  the  "Great 
White  Way."  Already  its  make-believe  and  inherent  cheapness 
had  come  to  seem  to  Eugene  largely  characteristic  of  the  city 


THE    '"GENIUS"  201 

and  of  life,  but  it  still  retained  enough  of  the  lure  of  the  flesh 
and  of  clothes  and  of  rush-light  reputations  to  hold  his  atten- 
tion. Here  were  dramatic  critics  and  noted  actors  and  actresses 
and  chorus  girls,  the  gods  and  toys  of  avid,  inexperienced,  unsatis- 
fied wealth.  He  showed  Angela  the  different  theatres,  called 
her  attention  to  distinguished  names;  made  much  of  restaurants 
and  hotels  and  shops  and  stores  that  sell  trifles  and  trash,  and 
finally  turned  into  lower  Fifth  Avenue,  where  the  dignity  of 
great  houses  and  great  conservative  wealth  still  lingered.  At 
Fourteenth  Street  Angela  could  already  see  Washington  Arch 
glowing  cream  white  in  the  glare  of  electric  lights. 

"What  is  that?"  she  asked  interestedly. 

"It's  Washington  Arch,"  he  replied.  "We  live  in  sight  of  that 
on  the  south  side  of  the  Square." 

"Oh!  but  it  is  beautiful!"  she  exclaimed. 

It  seemed  very  wonderful  to  her,  and  as  they  passed  under  it, 
and  the  whole  Square  spread  out  before  her,  it  seemed  a  perfect 
world  in  which  to  live. 

"Is  this  where  it  is?"  she  asked,  as  they  stopped  in  front  of  the 
studio  building. 

"Yes,  this  is  it.     How  do  you  like  it?" 

"I  think  it's  beautiful,"  she  said. 

They  went  up  the  white  stone  steps  of  the  old  Bride  house 
in  which  was  Eugene's  leased  studio,  up  two  flights  of  red- 
carpeted  stairs  and  finally  into  the  dark  studio  where  he  struck 
a  match  and  lit,  for  the  art  of  it,  candles.  A  soft  waxen  glow 
irradiated  the  place  as  he  proceeded  and  then  Angela  saw  old 
Chippendale  chairs,  a  Heppelwhite  writing-table,  a  Flemish 
strong  box  containing  used  and  unused  drawings,  the  green 
stained  fish-net  studded  with  bits  of  looking  glass  in  imitation 
of  scales,  a  square,  gold-framed  mirror  over  the  mantel,  and  one 
of  Eugene's  drawings — the  three  engines  in  the  gray,  lowering 
weather,  standing  large  and  impressive  upon  an  easel.  It  seemed 
to  Angela  the  perfection  of  beauty.  She  saw  the  difference  now 
between  the  tawdry  gorgeousness  of  a  commonplace  hotel  and 
this  selection  and  arrangement  of  individual  taste.  The  glowing 
candelabrum  of  seven  candles  on  either  side  of  the  square  mir- 
ror surprised  her  deeply.  The  black  walnut  piano  in  the  alcove 
behind  the  half  draped  net  drew  forth  an  exclamation  of  delight. 
"Oh,  how  lovely  it  all  is!"  she  exclaimed  and  ran  to  Eugene 
to  be  kissed.  He  fondled  her  for  a  few  minutes  and  then  she 
left  again  to  examine  in  detail  pictures,  pieces  of  furniture,  orna- 
ments of  brass  and  copper. 

"When  did  you  get  all  this?"  she  asked,  for  Eugene  had  not 


202  THE    "  GENIUS'3 

told  her  of  his  luck  in  finding  the  departing  Dexter  and  leasing 
it  for  the  rent  of  the  studio  and  its  care.  He  was  lighting  the 
fire  in  the  grate  which  had  been  prepared  by  the  house  at- 
tendant. 

"Oh,  it  isn't  mine,"  he  replied  easily.  "I  leased  this  from 
Russell  Dexter.  He's  going  to  be  in  Europe  until  next  winter. 
I  thought  that  would  be  easier  than  waiting  around  to  fix  up 
a  place  after  you  came.  We  can  get  our  things  together  next 
fall." 

He  was  thinking  he  would  be  able  to  have  his  exhibition  in 
the  spring,  and  perhaps  that  would  bring  some  notable  sales. 
Anyhow  it  might  bring  a  few,  increase  his  repute  and  give  him 
a  greater  earning  power. 

Angela's  heart  sank  just  a  little  but  she  recovered  in  a  mo- 
ment, for  after  all  it  was  very  exceptional  even  to  be  able  to 
lease  a  place  of  this  character.  She  went  to  the  window  and 
looked  out.  There  was  the  great  square  with  its  four  walls  of 
houses,  the  spread  of  trees,  still  decorated  with  a  few  dusty 
leaves,  and  the  dozens  of  arc  lights  sputtering  their  white  radi- 
ance in  between,  the  graceful  arch,  cream  white  over  at  the  en- 
trance of  Fifth  Avenue. 

"It's  so  beautiful,"  she  exclaimed  again,  coming  back  to  Eugene 
and  putting  her  arms  about  him.  "I  didn't  think  it  would  be 
anything  as  fine  as  this.  You're  so  good  to  me."  She  put  up  her 
lips  and  he  kissed  her,  pinching  her  cheeks.  Together  they 
walked  to  the  kitchen,  the  bedroom,  the  bathroom.  Then  after 
a  time  they  blew  out  the  candles  and  retired  for  the  night. 


CHAPTER    II 

AFTER  the  quiet  of  a  small  town,  the  monotony  and  sim- 
plicity of  country  life,  the  dreary,  reiterated  weariness  of 
teaching  a  country  school,  this  new  world  into  which  Angela  wras 
plunged  seemed  to  her  astonished  eyes  to  be  compounded  of 
little  save  beauties,  curiosities  and  delights.  The  human  senses, 
which  weary  so  quickly  of  reiterated  sensory  impressions,  ex- 
aggerate with  equal  readiness  the  beauty  and  charm  of  the  un- 
accustomed. If  it  is  new,  therefore  it  must  be  better  than  that 
which  we  have  had  of  old.  The  material  details  with  which  we 
are  able  to  surround  ourselves  seem  at  times  to  remake  our  point 
of  view.  If  we  have  been  poor,  wealth  will  seem  temporarily 
to  make  us  happy;  when  wre  have  been  amid  elements  and  per- 
sonages discordant  to  our  thoughts,  to  be  put  among  harmonious 
conditions  seems,  for  the  time  being,  to  solve  all  our  woes.  So 
little  do  we  have  that  interior  peace  which  no  material  condi- 
tions can  truly  affect  or  disturb. 

When  Angela  awoke  the  next  morning,  this  studio  in  which 
she  was  now  to  live  seemed  the  most  perfect  habitation  which 
could  be  devised  by  man.  The  artistry  of  the  arrangement  of 
the  rooms,  the  charm  of  the  conveniences — a  bathroom  with  hot 
and  cold  water  next  to  the  bedroom;  a  kitchen  with  an  array 
of  necessary  utensils.  In  the  rear  portion  of  the  studio  used  as 
a  dining-room  a  glimpse  of  the  main  studio  gave  her  the  sense  of 
art  which  dealt  with  nature,  the  beauty  of  the  human  form,  col- 
ors, tones — how  different  from  teaching  school.  To  her  the  dif- 
ference between  the  long,  low  rambling  house  at  Blackwood  with 
its  vine  ornamented  windows,  its  somewhat  haphazard  arrange- 
ment of  flowers  and  its  great  lawn,  and  this  peculiarly  compact 
and  ornate  studio  apartment  looking  out  upon  Washington 
Square,  was  all  in  favor  of  the  latter.  In  Angela's  judgment 
there  was  no  comparison.  She  could  not  have  understood  if 
she  could  have  seen  into  Eugene's  mind  at  this  time  how  her 
home  town,  her  father's  single  farm,  the  blue  waters  of  the  little 
lake  near  her  door,  the  shadows  of  the  tall  trees  on  her  lawn 
were  somehow,  compounded  for  him  not  only  with  classic  beauty 
itself,  but  with  her  own  charm.  When  she  was  among  these 
things  she  partook  of  their  beauty  and  was  made  more  beautiful 
thereby.  She  did  not  know  how  much  she  had  lost  in  leaving 
them  behind.  To  her  all  these  older  elements  of  her  life  were 
shabby  and  unimportant,  pointless  and  to  be  neglected. 

203 


204  THE    "GENIUS" 

This  new  world  was  in  its  way  for  her  an  Aladdin's  cave  of 
delight.  When  she  looked  out  on  the  great  square  for  the  first 
time  the  next  morning,  seeing  it  bathed  in  sunlight,  a  dignified 
line  of  red  brick  dwellings  to  the  north,  a  towering  office  building 
to  the  east,  trucks,  carts,  cars  and  vehicles  clattering  over  the 
pavement  below,  it  all  seemed  gay  with  youth  and  energy. 

"We'll  have  to  dress  and  go  out  to  breakfast,"  said  Eugene. 
"I  didn't  think  to  lay  anything  in.  As  a  matter  of  fact  I  wouldn't 
have  known  what  to  buy  if  I  had  wanted  to.  I  never  tried  house- 
keeping for  myself." 

"Oh,  that's  all  right/*  said  Angela,  fondling  his  hands,  "only 
let's  not  go  out  to  breakfast  unless  we  have  to.  Let's  see  what's 
here,"  and  she  went  back  to  the  very  small  room  devoted  to 
cooking  purposes  to  see  what  cooking  utensils  had  been  provided. 
She  had  been  dreaming  of  housekeeping  and  cooking  for  Eugene, 
of  petting  and  spoiling  him,  and  now  the  opportunity  had  ar- 
rived. She  found  that  Mr.  Dexter,  their  generous  lessor,  had 
provided  himself  with  many  conveniences-— breakfast  and  din- 
ner sets  of  brown  and  blue  porcelain,  a  coffee  percolator,  a  charm- 
ing dull  blue  teapot  with  cups  to  match,  a  chafing  dish,  a  set 
of  waffle  irons,  griddles,  spiders,  skillets,  stew  and  roasting  pans 
and  knives  and  forks  of  steel  and  silver  in  abundance.  Obviously 
he  had  entertained  from  time  to  time,  for  there  were  bread,  cake, 
sugar,  flour  and  salt  boxes  and  a  little  chest  containing,  in  small 
drawers,  various  spices. 

"Oh,  it  will  be  easy  to  get  something  here,"  said  Angela,  light- 
ing the  burners  of  the  gas  stove  to  see  whether  it  was  in  good 
working  order.  "We  can  just  go  out  to  market  if  you'll  come 
and  show  me  once  and  get  what  we  want.  It  won't  take  a  min- 
ute. I'll  know  after  that."  Eugene  consented  gladly. 

She  had  always  fancied  she  would  be  an  ideal  housekeeper  and 
now  that  she  had  her  Eugene  she  was  anxious  to  begin.  It  would 
be  such  a  pleasure  to  show  him  what  a  manager  she  was,  how 
everything  would  go  smoothly  in  her  hands,  how  careful  she 
would  be  of  his  earnings — their  joint  possessions. 

She  was  sorry,  now  that  she  saw  that  art  was  no  great  pro- 
ducer of  wealth,  that  she  had  no  money  to  bring  him,  but  she 
knew  that  Eugene  in  the  depth  of  his  heart  thought  nothing  of 
that.  He  was  too  impractical.  He  was  a  great  artist,  but  when 
it  came  to  practical  affairs  she  felt  instinctively  that  she  was 
much  the  wiser.  She  had  bought  so  long,  calculated  so  well  for 
her  sisters  and  brothers. 

Out  of  her  bag  (for  her  trunks  had  not  yet  arrived)  she 
extracted  a  neat  house  dress  of  pale  green  linen  which  she  put  on 


THE    "GENIUS''  205 

after  she  had  done  up  her  hair  in  a  cosy  coil,  and  together  with 
Eugene  for  a  temporary  guide,  they  set  forth  to  find  the  stores. 
He  had  told  her,  looking  out  the  windows,  that  there  were 
lines  of  Italian  grocers,  butchers  and  vegetable  men  in  the  side 
streets,  leading  south  from  the  square,  and  into  one  of  these  they 
now  ventured.  The  swarming,  impressive  life  of  the  street  al- 
most took  her  breath  away,  it  was  so  crowded.  Potatoes,  to- 
matoes, eggs,  flour,  butter,  lamb  chops,  salt — a  dozen  little  ac- 
cessories were  all  purchased  in  small  quantities,  and  then  they 
eagerly  returned  to  the  studio.  Angela  was  a  little  disgusted 
with  the  appearance  of  some  of  the  stores,  but  some  of  them 
were  clean  enough.  It  seemed  so  strange  to  her  to  be  buying  in 
an  Italian  street,  with  Italian  women  and  children  about,  their 
swarthy  leathern  faces  set  with  bright,  almost  feverish  eyes. 
Eugene  in  his  brown  corduroy  suit  and  soft  green  hat,  watching 
and  commenting  at  her  side,  presented  such  a  contrast.  He  was 
so  tall,  so  exceptional,  so  laconic. 

"I  like  them  when  they  wear  rings  in  their  ears,"  he  said  at 
one  time. 

"Get  the  coal  man  who  looks  like  a  bandit,"  he  observed  at 
another. 

"This  old  woman  here  might  do  for  the  witch  of  Endor." 

Angela  attended  strictly  to  her  marketing.  She  was  gay  and 
smiling,  but  practical.  She  was  busy  wondering  in  what  quanti- 
ties she  should  buy  things,  how  she  would  keep  fresh  vegetables, 
whether  the  ice  box  was  really  clean ;  how  much  delicate  dusting 
the  various  objects  in  the  studio  would  require.  The  raw  brick 
walls  of  the  street,  the  dirt  and  slops  in  the  gutter,  the  stray 
cats  and  dogs  hungry  and  lean,  the  swarming  stream  of  people, 
did  not  appeal  to  her  as  picturesque  at  all.  Only  when  she 
heard  Eugene  expatiating  gravely  did  she  begin  to  realize  that  all 
this  must  have  artistic  significance.  If  Eugene  said  so  it  did. 
But  it  was  a  fascinating  world  whatever  it  was,  and  it  was  ob- 
vious that  she  was  going  to  be  very,  very  happy. 

There  was  a  breakfast  in  the  studio  then  of  hot  biscuit  with 
fresh  butter,  an  omelette  with  tomatoes,  potatoes  stewed  in 
cream,  and  coffee.  After  the  long  period  of  commonplace  restau- 
rant dining  which  Eugene  had  endured,  this  seemed  ideal.  To 
sit  in  your  own  private  apartment  with  a  charming  wife  opposite 
you  ready  to  render  you  any  service,  and  with  an  array  of  food 
before  you  which  revived  the  finest  memories  in  your  gustatory 
experience,  seemed  perfect.  Nothing  could  be  better.  He  saw 
visions  of  a  happy  future  if  he  could  finance  this  sort  of  thing. 
It  would  require  a  lot  of  money,  more  than  he  had  been  making, 


206  THE   "GENIUS" 

but  he  thought  he  could  make  out.  After  breakfast  Angela 
played  on  the  piano,  and  then,  Eugene  wanting  to  work,  she 
started  housekeeping  in  earnest.  The  trunks  arriving  gave  her 
the  task  of  unpacking  and  with  that  and  lunch  and  dinner  to  say 
nothing  of  love  she  had  sufficient  to  do. 

It  was  a  charming  existence  for  a  little  while.  Eugene  sug- 
gested that  they  should  have  Smite  and  MacHugh  to  dinner 
first  of  all,  these  being  his  closest  friends.  Angela  agreed  heart- 
ily for  she  was  only  too  anxious  to  meet  the  people  he  knew. 
She  wanted  to  show  him  she  knew  how  to  receive  and  entertain 
as  well  as  anyone.  She  made  great  preparations  for  the  Wednes- 
day evening  following — the  night  fixed  for  the  dinner — and 
when  it  came  was  on  the  qui  vive  to  see  what  his  friends  were 
like  and  what  they  would  think  of  her. 

The  occasion  passed  off  smoothly  enough  and  was  the  occasion 
of  considerable  jollity.  These  two  cheerful  worthies  were  greatly 
impressed  with  the  studio.  They  were  quick  to  praise  it  before 
Angela,  and  to  congratulate  him  on  his  good  fortune  in  having 
married  her.  Angela,  in  the  same  dress  in  which  she  had  ap- 
peared at  dinner  in  Buffalo,  was  impressive.  Her  mass  of  yel- 
low hair  fascinated  the  gaze  of  both  Smite  and  MacHugh. 

"Gee,  what  hair!'*  Smite  observed  secretly  to  MacHugh  when 
neither  Angela  nor  Eugene  were  within  hearing  distance. 

"You're  right,"  returned  MacHugh.  "She's  not  at  all  bad 
looking,  is  she?" 

"I  should  say  not,"  returned  Smite  who  admired  Angela's 
simple,  good-natured  western  manners.  A  little  later,  more 
subtly,  they  expressed  their  admiration  to  her,  and  she  was  greatly 
pleased. 

Marietta,  who  had  arrived  late  that  afternoon,  had  not  made 
her  appearance  yet.  She  was  in  the  one  available  studio  bed- 
room making  her  toilet.  Angela,  in  spite  of  her  fine  raiment, 
was  busy  superintending  the  cooking,  for  although  through  the 
janitor  she  had  managed  to  negotiate  the  loan  of  a  girl  to  serve, 
she  could  not  get  anyone  to  cook.  A  soup,  a  fish,  a  chicken  and 
a  salad,  were  the  order  of  procedure.  Marietta  finally  appeared, 
ravishing  in  pink  silk.  Both  Smite  and  MacHugh  sat  up  and 
Marietta  proceeded  to  bewitch  them.  Marietta  knew  no  order 
or  distinctions  in  men.  They  were  all  slaves  to  her — victims  to 
be  stuck  on  the  spit  of  her  beauty  and  broiled  in  their  amorous 
uncertainties  at  her  leisure.  In  after  years  Eugene  learned  to 
speak  of  Marietta's  smile  as  "the  dagger."  The  moment  she 
appeared  smiling  he  would  say,  "Ah,  we  have  it  out  again,  have 
we?  Who  gets  the  blade  this  evening?  Poor  victim!" 


THE    "GENIUS'  207 

Being  her  brother-in-law  now,  he  was  free  to  slip  his  arm 
about  her  waist  and  she  took  this  family  connection  as  license  to 
kiss  him.  There  was  something  about  Eugene  which  held  her 
always.  During  these  very  first  days  she  gratified  her  desire  to 
be  in  his  arms,  but  always  with  a  sense  of  reserve  which  kept 
him  in  check.  She  wondered  secretly  how  much  he  liked  her. 

Smite  and  MacHugh,  when  she  appeared,  both  rose  to  do 
her  service.  MacHugh  offered  her  his  chair  by  the  fire.  Smite 
bestirred  himself  in  an  aimless  fashion. 

"I've  just  had  such  a  dandy  week  up  at  West  Point,"  began 
Marietta  cheerfully,  "dancing,  seeing  dress  parades,  walking 
with  the  soldier  boys." 

"I  warn  you  two,  here  and  now,"  began  Eugene,  who  had 
already  learned  to  tease  Marietta,  "that  you're  not  safe.  This 
woman  here  is  dangerous.  As  artists  in  good  standing  you  had 
better  look  out  for  yourselves." 

"Oh,  Eugene,  how  you  talk,"  laughed  Marietta,  her  teeth 
showing  effectively.  "Mr.  Smite,  I  leave  it  to  you.  Isn't  that 
a  mean  way  to  introduce  a  sister-in-law?  I'm  here  for  just  a 
few  days  too,  and  have  so  little  time.  I  think  it  cruel !" 

"It's  a  shame!"  said  Smite,  who  was  plainly  a  willing  vic- 
tim. "You  ought  to  have  another  kind  of  brother-in-law.  If 
you  had  some  people  I  know  now — 

"It's  an  outrage,"  commented  MacHugh.  "There's  one  thing 
though.  You  may  not  require  so  very  much  time." 

"Now  I  think  that's  ungallant,"  Marietta  laughed.  "I  see 
I'm  all  alone  here  except  for  Mr.  Smite.  Never  mind.  You 
all  will  be  sorry  when  I'm  gone." 

"I  believe  that,"  replied  MacHugh,  feelingly. 

Smite  simply  stared.  He  was  lost  in  admiration  of  her  cream 
and  peach  complexion,  her  fluffy,  silky  brown  hair,  her  bright 
blue  eyes  and  plump  rounded  arms.  Such  radiant  good  nature 
would  be  heavenly  to  live  with.  He  wondered  what  sort  of  a 
family  this  was  that  Eugene  had  become  connected  with.  An- 
gela, Marietta,  a  brother  at  West  Point.  They  must  be  nice, 
conservative,  well-to-do  western  people.  Marietta  went  to  help 
her  sister,  and  Smite,  in  the  absence  of  Eugene,  said:  "Say,  he's 
in  right,  isn't  he?  She's  a  peach.  She's  got  it  a  little  on  her 
sister." 

MacHugh  merely  stared  at  the  room.  He  was  taken  with 
the  complexion  and  arrangement  of  things  generally.  The  old 
furniture,  the  rugs,  the  hangings,  the  pictures,  Eugene's  bor- 
rowed maid  servant  in  a  white  apron  and  cap,  Angela,  Marietta, 
the  bright  table  set  with  colored  china  and  an  arrangement  of 


208  THE    '"GENIUS" 

silver  candlesticks — Eugene  had  certainly  changed  the  tenor 
of  his  life  radically  within  the  last  ten  days.  Why  he  was  mar- 
vellously fortunate.  This  studio  was  a  wonderful  piece  of 
luck.  Some  people — and  he  shook  his  head  meditatively. 

"Well,"  said  Eugene,  coming  back  after  some  final  touches  to 
his  appearance,  "what  do  you  think  of  it,  Peter?" 

"You're  certainly  moving  along,  Eugene.  I  never  expected 
to  see  it.  You  ought  to  praise  God.  You're  plain  lucky." 

Eugene  smiled  enigmatically.  He  was  wondering  whether  he 
was.  Neither  Smite  nor  MacHugh  nor  anyone  could  dream  of 
the  conditions  under  which  this  came  about.  What  a  sham 
the  world  was  anyhow.  It's  surface  appearances  so  ridiculously 
deceptive!  If  anyone  had  known  of  the  apparent  necessity 
when  he  first  started  to  look  for  an  apartment,  of  his  own  mood 
toward  it! 

Marietta  came  back,  and  Angela.  The  latter  had  taken 
kindly  to  both  these  men,  or  boys  as  she  already  considered  them. 
Eugene  had  a  talent  for  reducing  everybody  to  "simply  folks," 
as  he  called  them.  So  these  two  capable  and  talented  men  were 
mere  country  boys  like  himself — and  Angela  caught  his  at- 
titude. 

"I'd  like  to  have  you  let  me  make  a  sketch  of  you  some  day, 
Mrs.  Witla,"  MacHugh  said  to  Angela  when  she  came  back 
to  the  fire.  He  was  essaying  portraiture  as  a  side  line  and  he 
was  anxious  for  good  opportunities  to  practice. 

Angela  thrilled  at  the  invitation,  and  the  use  of  her  new  name, 
Mrs.  Witla,  by  Eugene's  old  friends. 

"I'd  be  delighted,"  she  replied,  flushing. 

"My  word,  you  look  nice,  Angel-Face,"  exclaimed  Marietta, 
catching  her  about  the  waist.  "You  paint  her  with  her  hair  down 
in  braids,  Mr.  MacHugh.  She  makes  a  stunning  Gretchen." 

Angela  flushed  anew. 

"I've  been  reserving  that  for  myself,  Peter,"  said  Eugene, 
"but  you  try  your  hand  at  it.  I'm  not  much  in  portraiture  any- 
how." 

Smite  smiled  at  Marietta.  He  wished  he  could  paint  her,  but 
he  was  poor  at  figure  work  except  as  incidental  characters  in 
sea  scenes.  He  could  do  men  better  than  he  could  women. 

"If  you  were  an  old  sea  captain  now,  Miss  Blue,"  he  said 
to  Marietta  gallantly,  "I  could  make  a  striking  thing  out  of 
you." 

"I'll  try  to  be,  if  you  want  to  paint  me,"  she  replied  gaily. 
"I'd  look  fine  in  a  big  pair  of  boots  and  a  raincoat,  wouldn't  I, 
Eugene?" 


THE    "GENIUS"  209 

"You  certainly  would,  if  I'm  any  judge/'  replied  Smite. 
"Come  over  to  the  studio  and  I'll  rig  you  out.  I  have  all  those 
things  on  hand."  f 

"I  will,"  she  replied,  laughing.     "You  just  say  the  word."     %j 

MacHugh  felt  as  if  Smite  were  stealing  a  march  on  him.  He 
wanted  to  be  nice  to  Marietta,  to  have  her  take  an  interest  in 
him. 

"Now,  looky,  Joseph,"  he  protested.  "I  was  going  to  suggest 
making  a  study  of  Miss  Blue  myself." 

"Well,  you're  too  late,"  replied  Smite.  "You  didn't  speak 
quick  enough." 

Marietta  was  greatly  impressed  with  this  atmosphere  in  which 
Angela  and  Eugene  were  living.  She  expected  to  see  something 
artistic,  but  nothing  so  nice  as  this  particular  studio.  Angela 
explained  to  her  that  Eugene  did  not  own  it,  but  that  made 
small  difference  in  Marietta's  estimate  of  its  significance.  Eu- 
gene had  it.  His  art  and  social  connections  brought  it  about. 
They  were  beginning  excellently  well.  If  she  could  have  as 
nice  a  home  when  she  started  on  her  married  career  she  would 
be  satisfied. 

They  sat  down  about  the  round  teak  table  which  was  one  of 
Dexter's  prized  possessions,  and  were  served  by  Angela's  bor- 
rowed maid.  The  conversation  was  light  and  for  the  most  part 
pointless,  serving  only  to  familiarize  these  people  with  each 
other.  Both  Angela  and  Marietta  were  taken  with  the  two  ar- 
tists because  they  felt  in  them  a  note  of  homely  conservatism. 
These  men  spoke  easily  and  naturally  of  the  trials  and  triumphs 
of  art  life,  and  the  difficulty  of  making  a  good  living,  and  seemed 
to  be  at  home  with  personages  of  repute  in  one  world  and  an- 
other, its  greatest  reward. 

During  the  dinner  Smite  narrated  experiences  in  his  sea-faring 
life,  and  MacHugh  of  his  mountain  camping  experiences  in 
the  West.  Marietta  described  experiences  with  her  beaux  in 
Wisconsin  and  characteristics  of  her  yokel  neighbors  at  Black- 
wood,  Angela  joining  in.  Finally  MacHugh  drew  a  pencil 
sketch  of  Marietta  followed  by  a  long  train  of  admiring  yokels, 
her  eyes  turned  up  in  a  very  shy,  deceptive  manner. 

"Now  I  think  that's  cruel,"  she  declared,  when  Eugene  laughed 
heartily.  "I  never  look  like  that." 

"That's  just  the  way  you  look  and  do,"  he  declared.  "You're 
the  broad  and  flowery  path  that  leadeth  to  destruction." 

"Never  mind,  Babyette,"  put  in  Angela,  "I'll  take  your  part 
if  no  one  else  will.  You're  a  nice,  demure,  shrinking  girl  and 
you  wouldn't  look  at  anyone,  would  you?" 


210  THE    "GENIUS' 

Angela  got  up  and  was  holding  Marietta's  head  mock  sym- 
pathetically in  her  arms. 

"Say,  that's  a  dandy  pet  name,"  called  Smite,  moved  by  Mari- 
etta's beauty. 

"Poor  Marietta,"  observed  Eugene.  "Come  over  here  to 
me  and  I'll  sympathize  with  you." 

"You  don't  take  my  drawing  in  the  right  spirit,  Miss  Blue," 
put  in  MacHugh  cheerfully.  "It's  simply  to  show  how  popu- 
lar you  are." 

Angela  stood  beside  Eugene  as  her  guests  departed,  her  slender 
arm  about  his  waist.  Marietta  was  coquetting  finally  with 
MacHugh.  These  two  friends  of  his,  thought  Eugene,  had  the 
privilege  of  singleness  to  be  gay  and  alluring  to  her.  With  him 
that  was  over  now.  He  could  not  be  that  way  to  any  girl  any 
more.  He  had  to  behave — be  calm  and  circumspect.  It  cut  him, 
this  thought.  He  saw  at  once  it  was  not  in  accord  with  his  na- 
ture. He  wanted  to  do  just  as  he  had  always  done — make  love 
to  Marietta  if  she  would  let  him,  but  he  could  not.  He  walked 
to  the  fire  when  the  studio  door  was  closed. 

"They're  such  nice  boys,"  exclaimed  Marietta.  "I  think  Mr. 
MacHugh  is  as  funny  as  he  can  be.  He  has  such  droll  wit." 

"Smite  is  nice  too,"  replied  Eugene  defensively. 

"They're  both  lovely — just  lovely,"  returned  Marietta. 

"I  like  Mr.  MacHugh  a  little  the  best — he's  quainter,"  said 
Angela,  "but  I  think  Mr.  Smite  is  just  as  nice  as  he  can  be.  He's 
so  old  fashioned.  There's  not  anyone  as  nice  as  my  Eugene, 
though,"  she  said  affectionately,  putting  her  arm  about  him. 

"Oh,  dear,  you  two!"  exclaimed  Marietta.  "Well,  I'm 
going  to  bed." 

Eugene  sighed. 

They  had  arranged  a  couch  for  her  which  could  be  put  behind 
the  silver-spangled  fish  net  in  the  alcove  when  company  was 
gone. 

Eugene  thought  what  a  pity  that  already  this  affection  of 
Angela's  was  old  to  him.  It  was  not  as  it  would  be  if  he  had 
taken  Marietta  or  Christina.  They  went  to  their  bed  room  to 
retire  and  then  he  saw  that  all  he  had  was  passion.  Must  he  be 
satisfied  with  that  ?  Could  he  be  ?  It  started  a  chain  of  thought 
which,  while  persistently  interrupted  or  befogged,  was  really 
never  broken.  Momentary  sympathy,  desire,  admiration,  might 
obscure  it,  but  always  fundamentally  it  was  there.  He  had  made 
a  mistake.  He  had  put  his  head  in  a  noose.  He  had  subjected 
himself  to  conditions  which  he  did  not  sincerely  approve  of. 
How  was  he  going  to  remedy  this — or  could  it  ever  be  remedied  ? 


CHAPTER    III 

WHATEVER  were  Eugene's  secret  thoughts,  he  began  his 
married  life  with  the  outward  air  of  one  who  takes  it 
seriously  enough.  Now  that  he  was  married,  was  actually  bound 
by  legal  ties,  he  felt  that  he  might  as  well  make  the  best  of  it.  He 
had  once  had  the  notion  that  it  might  be  possible  to  say  nothing 
of  his  marriage,  and  keep  Angela  in  the  background,  but  this 
notion  had  been  dispelled  by  the  attitude  of  MacHugh  and 
Smite,  to  say  nothing  of  Angela.  So  he  began  to  consider  the 
necessity  of  notifying  his  friends — Miriam  Finch  and  Norma 
Whitmore  and  possibly  Christina  Channing,  when  she  should 
return.  These  three  women  offered  the  largest  difficulty  to  his 
mind.  He  felt  the  commentary  which  their  personalities  repre- 
sented. What  would  they  think  of  him?  What  of  Angela? 
Now  that  she  was  right  here  in  the  city  he  could  see  that  she 
represented  a  different  order  of  thought.  He  had  opened  the 
campaign  by  suggesting  that  they  invite  Smite  and  MacHugh. 
The  thing  to  do  now  was  to  go  further  in  this  matter. 

The  one  thing  that  troubled  him  was  the  thought  of  breaking 
the  news  to  Miriam  Finch,  for  Christina  Channing  was  away, 
and  Norma  Whitmore  was  not  of  sufficient  importance.  He 
argued  now  that  he  should  have  done  this  beforehand,  but  hav- 
ing neglected  that  it  behoved  him  to  act  at  once.  He  did  so% 
finally,  writing  to  Norma  Whitmore  and  saying,  for  he  had  no 
long  explanation  to  make — "Yours  truly  is  married.  May  I 
bring  my  wife  up  to  see  you?"  Miss  Whitmore  was  truly  taken 
by  surprise.  She  was  sorry  at  first — very — because  Eugene  in- 
terested her  greatly  and  she  was  afraid  he  would  make  a  mistake 
in  his  marriage;  but  she  hastened  to  make  the  best  of  a  bad 
turn  on  the  part  of  fate  and  wrote  a  note  which  ran  as  fol- 
lows: 

"Dear  Eugene  and  Eugene's  Wife: 

"This  is  news  as  is  news.  Congratulations.  And  I  am 
coming  right  down  as  soon  as  I  get  my  breath.  And  then  you  two 
must  come  to  see  me. 

"NORMA  WHITMORE." 

Eugene  was  pleased  and  grateful  that  she  took  it  so  nicely, 
but  Angela  was  the  least  big  chagrined  secretly  that  he  had  not 
told  her  before.  Why  hadn't  he?  Was  this  someone  that  he 

211 


212  THE    '"GENIUS" 

was  interested  in?  Those  three  years  in  which  she  had  doubt- 
ingly  waited  for  Eugene  had  whetted  her  suspicions  and  nurtured 
her  fears.  Still  she  tried  to  make  little  of  it  and  to  put  on  an  air 
of  joyousness.  She  would  be  so  glad  to  meet  Miss  Whitmore. 
Eugene  told  her  how  kind  she  had  been  to  him,  how  much  she 
admired  his  art,  how  helpful  she  was  in  bringing  together  young 
literary  and  artistic  people  and  how  influential  with  those  who 
counted.  She  could  do  him  many  a  good  turn.  Angela  listened 
patiently,  but  she  was  just  the  least  bit  resentful  that  he  should 
think  so  much  of  any  one  woman  outside  of  herself.  Why  should 
he,  Eugene  Witla,  be  dependent  on  the  favor  of  any  woman? 
Of  course  she  must  be  very  nice  and  they  would  be  good  friends, 
but — 

Norma  came  one  afternoon  two  days  later  with  the  atmosphere 
of  enthusiasm  trailing,  as  it  seemed  to  Eugene,  like  a  cloud  of 
glory  about  her.  She  was  both  fire  and  strength  to  him  in  her 
regard  and  sympathy,  even  though  she  resented,  ever  so  slightly, 
his  affectional  desertion. 

"You  piggy-wiggy  Eugene  Witla,"  she  exclaimed.  "What  do 
you  mean  by  running  off  and  getting  married  and  never  saying 
a  word-  I  never  even  had  a  chance  to  get  you  a  present  and  now 
I  have  to  bring  it.  Isn't  this  a  charming  place — why  it's  per- 
fectly delightful,"  and  as  she  laid  her  present  down  unopened  she 
looked  about  to  see  where  Mrs.  Eugene  Witla  might  be. 

Angela  was  in  the  bedroom  finishing  her  toilet.  She  was 
expecting  this  descent  and  so  was  prepared,  being  suitably  dressed 
in  the  light  green  house  gown.  When  she  heard  Miss  Whit- 
more's  familiar  mode  of  address  she  winced,  for  this  spoke  vol- 
umes for  a  boon  companionship  of  long  endurance.  Eugene 
hadn't  said  so  much  of  Miss  Whitmore  in  the  past  as  he  had  re- 
cently, but  she  could  see  that  they  were  very  intimate.  She 
looked  out  and  saw  her — this  tall,  not  very  shapely,  but  grace- 
ful woman,  whose  whole  being  represented  dynamic  energy, 
awareness,  subtlety  of  perception.  Eugene  was  shaking  her  hand 
and  looking  genially  into  her  face. 

"Why  should  Eugene  like  her  so  much  ?"  she  asked  herself  in- 
stantly. "Why  did  his  face  shine  with  that  light  of  intense  en- 
thusiasm?" The  "piggy-wiggy  Eugene  Witla"  expression  irri- 
tated her.  It  sounded  as  though  she  might  be  in  love  with  him. 
She  came  out  after  a  moment  with  a  glad  smile  on  her  face  and 
approached  wTith  every  show  of  good  feeling,  but  Miss  Whit- 
more could  sense  opposition. 

"So  this  is  Mrs.  Witla,"  she  exclaimed,  kissing  her.  "I'm  de- 
lighted to  know  you.  I  have  always  wondered  what  sort  of  a 


THE    "GENIUS'1  213 

girl  Mr.  Witla  would  marry.  You'll  just  have  to  pardon  my 
calling  him  Eugene.  I'll  get  over  it  after  a  bit,  I  suppose,  now 
that  he's  married.  But  we've  been  such  good  friends  and  I  ad- 
mire his  work  so  much.  How  do  you  like  studio  life — or  are 
you  used  to  it?" 

Angela,  wrho  was  taking  in  every  detail  of  Eugene's  old  friend, 
replied  in  what  seemed  an  affected  tone  that  no,  she  wasn't  used 
to  studio  life:  she  was  just  from  the  country,  you  know — a  regu- 
lar farmer  girl — Blackwood,  Wisconsin,  no  less!  She  stopped 
to  let  Norma  express  friendly  surprise,  and  then  went  on  to  say 
that  she  supposed  Eugene  had  not  said  very  much  about  her, 
but  he  wrote  her  often  enough.  She  was  rejoicing  in  the  fact 
that  whatever  slight  Eugene's  previous  silence  seemed  to  put  upon 
her,  she  had  the  satisfaction  that  she  had  won  him  after  all  and 
Miss  Whitmore  had  not.  She  fancied  from  Miss  Whitmore's 
enthusiastic  attitude  that  she  must  like  Eugene  very  much,  and 
she  could  see  now  what  sort  of  women  might  have  made  him 
wish  to  delay.  Who  were  the  others,  she  wondered? 

They  talked  of  metropolitan  experiences  generally.  Marietta 
came  in  from  a  shopping  expedition  with  a  Mrs.  Link,  wife  of 
an  army  captain  acting  as  an  instructor  at  West  Point,  and  tea 
was  served  immediately  afterward.  Miss  Whitmore  was  insist- 
ent that  they  should  come  and  take  dinner  with  her  some  even- 
ing. Eugene  confided  that  he  was  sending  a  painting  to  the 
Academy. 

"They'll  hang  it,  of  course,"  assured  Norma,  "but  you  ought 
to  have  an  exhibition  of  your  own." 

Marietta  gushed  about  the  wonder  of  the  big  stores  and  so 
it  finally  came  time  for  Miss  Whitmore  to  go. 

"Now  you  will  come  up,  won't  you?"  she  said  to  Angela,  for 
in  spite  of  a  certain  feeling  of  incompatibility  and  difference  she 
was  determined  to  like  her.  She  thought  Angela  a  little  in- 
experienced and  presumptuous  in  marrying  Eugene.  She  was 
afraid  she  was  not  up  to  his  standard.  Still  she  was  quaint,  pi- 
quant. Perhaps  she  would  do  very  well.  Angela  was  thinking 
all  the  while  that  Miss  Whitmore  was  presuming  on  her  old 
acquaintance  with  Eugene — that  she  was  too  affected  and  en- 
thusiastic. 

There  was  another  day  on  which  Miriam  Finch  called.  Rich- 
ard Wheeler,  having  learned  at  Smite's  and  MacHugh's  studio 
of  Eugene's  marriage  and  present  whereabouts,  had  hurried 
over,  and  then  immediately  afterwards  off  to  Miriam  Finch's 
studio.  Surprised  himself,  he  knew  that  she  would  be  more  so. 

"Witla's  married!"  he  exclaimed,  bursting  into  her  room,  and 


2i4  THE    "GENIUS" 

for  the  moment  Miriam  lost  her  self-possession  sufficiently  to 
reply  almost  dramatically:  "Richard  Wheeler,  what  are  you 
talking  about!  You  don't  mean  that,  do  you?" 

"He's  married,"  insisted  Wheeler,  "and  he's  living  down  in 
Washington  Square,  61  is  the  number.  He  has  the  cutest  yel- 
low-haired wife  you  ever  saw." 

Angela  had  been  nice  to  Wheeler  and  he  liked  her.  He  liked 
the  air  of  this  domicile  and  thought  it  was  going  to  be  a  good 
thing  for  Eugene.  He  needed  to  settle  down  and  work  hard. 

Miriam  winced  mentally  at  the  picture.  She  was  hurt  by  this 
deception  of  Eugene's,  chagrined  because  he  had  not  thought 
enough  of  her  even  to  indicate  that  he  was  going  to  get  mar- 
ried. 

"He's  been  married  ten  days,"  communicated  Wheeler,  and 
this  added  force  to  her  temporary  chagrin.  The  fact  that  An- 
gela was  yellow-haired  and  cute  was  also  disturbing. 

"Well,"  she  finally  exclaimed  cheerfully,  "he  might  have  said 
something  to  us,  mightn't  he  ?"  and  she  covered  her  own  original 
confusion  by  a  gay  nonchalance  which  showed  nothing  of  what 
she  was  really  thinking.  This  was  certainly  indifference  on 
Eugene's  part,  and  yet,  why  shouldn't  he?  He  had  never  pro- 
posed to  her.  Still  they  had  been  so  intimate  mentally. 

She  was  interested  to  see  Angela.  She  wondered  what  sort  of 
a  woman  she  really  was.  "Yellow-haired!  Cute!"  Of  course, 
like  all  men,  Eugene  had  sacrificed  intellect  and  mental 
charm  for  a  dainty  form  and  a  pretty  face.  It  seemed  queer, 
but  she  had  fancied  that  he  would  not  do  that — that  his  wife, 
if  he  ever  took  one,  would  be  tall  perhaps,  and  gracious,  and 
of  a  beautiful  mind — someone  distinguished.  Why  would  men, 
intellectual  men,  artistic  men,  any  kind  of  men,  invariably  make 
fools  of  themselves !  Well,  she  wrould  go  and  see  her. 

Because  Wheeler  informed  him  that  he  had  told  Miriam, 
Eugene  wrote,  saying  as  briefly  as  possible  that  he  was  married 
and  that  he  wanted  to  bring  Angela  to  her  studio.  For  reply 
she  came  herself,  gay,  smiling,  immaculately  dressed,  anxious  to 
hurt  Angela  because  she  had  proved  the  victor.  She  also  wanted 
to  show  Eugene  how  little  difference  it  all  made  to  her. 

"You  certainly  are  a  secretive  young  man,  Mr.  Eugene  Witla," 
she  exclaimed,  when  she  saw  him.  "Why  didn't  you  make  him 
tell  us,  Mrs.  Witla?"  she  demanded  archly  of  Angela,  but  with 
a  secret  dagger  thrust  in  her  eyes.  "You'd  think  he  didn't  want 
us  to  know." 

Angela  cowered  beneath  the  sting  of  this  whip  cord.  Miriam 
made  her  feel  as  though  Eugene  had  attempted  to  conceal  his 


THE    "GENIUS''  215 

relationship  to  her — as  though  he  was  ashamed  of  her.  Kow 
many  more  women  were  there  like  Miriam  and  Norma  Whit- 
more? 

Eugene  was  gaily  unconscious  of  the  real  animus  in  Miriam's 
conversation,  and  now  that  the  first  cruel  moment  was  over,  was 
talking  glibly  of  things  in  general,  anxious  to  make  everything 
seem  as  simple  and  natural  as  possible.  He  was  working  at  one 
of  his  pictures  when  Miriam  came  in  and  was  eager  to  obtain 
her  critical  opinion,  since  it  was  nearly  done.  She  squinted  at 
it  narrowly  but  said  nothing  when  he  asked.  Ordinarily  she 
would  have  applauded  it  vigorously.  She  did  think  it  excep- 
tional, but  was  determined  to  say  nothing.  She  walked  indiffer- 
ently about,  examining  this  and  that  object  in  a  superior  way, 
asking  how  he  came  to  obtain  the  studio,  congratulating  him 
upon  his  good  luck.  Angela,  she  decided,  was  interesting,  but 
not  in  Eugene's  class  mentally,  and  should  be  ignored.  He  had 
made  a  mistake,  that  was  plain. 

"Now  you  must  bring  Mrs.  Witla  up  to  see  me,"  she  said 
on  leaving.  "I'll  play  and  sing  all  my  latest  songs  for  you. 
I  have  made  some  of  the  daintest  discoveries  in  old  Italian  and 
Spanish  pieces." 

Angela,  who  had  posed  to  Eugene  as  knowing  something  about 
music,  resented  this  superior  invitation,  without  inquiry  as  to 
her  own  possible  ability  or  taste,  as  she  did  Miriam's  entire 
attitude.  Why  was  she  so  haughty — so  superior?  What  was 
it  to  her  whether  Eugene  had  said  anything  about  her  or  not? 

She  said  nothing  to  show  that  she  herself  played,  but  she 
wondered  that  Eugene  said  nothing.  It  seemed  neglectful  and 
inconsiderate  of  him.  He  was  busy  wondering  what  Miriam 
thought  of  his  picture.  Miriam  took  his  hand  warmly  at  part- 
ing, looked  cheerfully  into  his  eyes,  and  said,  "I  know  you  two 
are  going  to  be  irrationally  happy,"  and  went  out. 

Eugene  felt  the  irritation  at  last.  He  knew  Angela  felt  some- 
thing. Miriam  was  resentful,  that  was  it.  She  was  angry  at 
him  for  his  seeming  indifference.  She  had  commented  to  her- 
self on  Angela's  appearance  and  to  her  disadvantage.  In  her 
manner  had  been  the  statement  that  his  wife  was  not  very  im- 
portant after  all,  not  of  the  artistic  and  superior  world  to  which 
she  and  he  belonged. 

"How  do  you  like  her?"  he  asked  tentatively  after  she  had 
gone,  feeling  a  strong  current  of  opposition,  but  not  knowing 
on  what  it  might  be  based  exactly. 

"I  don't  like  her,"  returned  Angela  petulantly.  "She  thinks 
she's  sweet.  She  treats  you  as  though  she  thought  you  were  her 


216  THE    "GENIUS" 

personal  property.  She  openly  insulted  me  about  your  not  tell- 
ing her.  Miss  Whitmore  did  the  same  thing — they  all  do !  They 
all  will!  Oh!!" 

She  suddenly  burst  into  tears  and  ran  crying  toward  their 
bedroom. 

Eugene  followed,  astonished,  ashamed,  rebuked,  guilty  minded, 
almost  terror-stricken — he  hardly  knew  what. 

"Why,  Angela,"  he  urged  pleadingly,  leaning  over  her  and 
attempting  to  raise  her.  "You  know  that  isn't  true." 

"It  is!  It  is!!"  she  insisted.  "Don't  touch  me!  Don't  come 
near  me!  You  know  it  is  true!  You  don't  love  me.  You 
haven't  treated  me  right  at  all  since  I've  been  here.  You  haven't 
done  anything  that  you  should  have  done.  She  insulted  me 
openly  to  my  face." 

She  was  speaking  with  sobs,  and  Eugene  was  at  once  pained 
and  terrorized  by  the  persistent  and  unexpected  display  of 
emotion.  He  had  never  seen  Angela  like  this  before.  He  had 
never  seen  any  woman  so. 

"Why,  Angelface,"  he  urged,  "how  can  you  go  on  like  this? 
You  know  what  you  say  isn't  true.  What  have  I  done?" 

"You  haven't  told  your  friends — that's  what  you  haven't 
done,"  she  exclaimed  between  gasps.  "They  still  think  you're 
single.  You  keep  me  here  hidden  in  the  background  as  though 
I  were  a — were  a — I  don't  know  what!  Your  friends  come 
and  insult  me  openly  to  my  face.  They  do!  They  do!  Oh!" 
and  she  sobbed  anew. 

She  knew  very  well  what  she  was  doing  in  her  anger  and 
rage.  She  felt  that  she  was  acting  in  the  right  way.  Eugene 
needed  a  severe  reproof;  he  had  acted  very  badly,  and  this 
was  the  way  to  administer  it  to  him  now  in  the  beginning. 
His  conduct  was  indefensible,  and  only  the  fact  that  he  was 
an  artist,  immersed  in  cloudy  artistic  thoughts  and  not  really 
subject  to  the  ordinary  conventions  of  life,  saved  him  in  her 
estimation.  It  didn't  matter  that  she  had  urged  him  to  marry 
her.  It  didn't  absolve  him  that  he  had  done  so.  She  thought 
he  owed  her  that.  Anyhow  they  were  married  now,  and  he 
should  do  the  proper  thing. 

Eugene  stood  there  cut  as  with  a  knife  by  this  terrific  charge. 
He  had  not  meant  anything  by  concealing  her  presence,  he 
thought.  He  had  only  endeavored  to  protect  himself  very 
slightly,  temporarily. 

"You  oughtn't  to  say  that,  Angela,"  he  pleaded.  "There 
aren't  any  more  that  don't  know — at  least  any  more  that  I 
care  anything  about.  I  didn't  think.  I  didn't  mean  to  conceal 


THE    ''GENIUS'1  217 

anything.     I'll  write  to  everybody  that  might  be   interested." 

He  still  felt  hurt  that  she  should  brutally  attack  him  this 
way  even  in  her  sorrow.  He  was  wrong,  no  doubt,  but  she? 
Was  this  a  way  to  act,  this  the  nature  of  true  love?  He  mentally 
writhed  and  twisted. 

Taking  her  up  in  his  arms,  smoothing  her  hair,  he  asked 
her  to  forgive  him.  Finally,  when  she  thought  she  had  punished 
him  enough,  and  that  he  was  truly  sorry  and  would  make 
amends  in  the  future,  she  pretended  to  listen  and  then  of  a 
sudden  threw  her  arms  about  his  neck  and  began  to  hug  and 
kiss  him.  Passion,  of  course,  was  the  end  of  this,  but  the 
whole  thing  left  a  disagreeable  taste  in  Eugene's  mouth.  He 
did  not  like  scenes.  He  preferred  the  lofty  indifference  of 
Miriam,  the  gay  subterfuge  of  Norma,  the  supreme  stoicism  of 
Christina  Channing.  This  noisy,  tempestuous,  angry  emotion 
was  not  quite  the  thing  to  have  introduced  into  his  life.  He 
did  not  see  how  that  would  make  for  love  between  them. 

Still  Angela  was  sweet,  he  thought.  She  was  a  little  girl — 
not  as  wise  as  Norma  Whitmore,  not  as  self -protective  as 
Miriam  Finch  or  Christina  Channing.  Perhaps  after  all  she 
needed  his  care  and  affection.  Maybe  it  was  best  for  her  and 
for  him  that  he  had  married  her. 

So  thinking  he  rocked  her  in  his  arms,  and  Angela,  lying 
there,  was  satisfied.  She  had  won  a  most  important  victory.  She 
was  starting  right.  She  was  starting  Eugene  right.  She  would 
get  the  moral,  mental  and  emotional  upper  hand  of  him  and 
keep  it.  Then  these  women,  who  thought  themselves  so  superior, 
could  go  their  way.  She  would  have  Eugene  and  he  would  be  a 
great  man  and  she  would  be  his  wife.  That  was  all  she  wanted. 


CHAPTER    IV 

THE  result  of  Angela's  outburst  was  that  Eugene  hastened  to 
notify  those  whom  he  had  not  already  informed — Shot- 
meyer,  his  father  and  mother,  Sylvia,  Myrtle,  Hudson  Dula — • 
and  received  in  return  cards  and  letters  of  congratulation  ex- 
pressing surprise  and  interest,  which  he  presented  to  Angela 
in  a  conciliatory  spirit.  She  realized,  after  it  was  all  over,  that 
she  had  given  him  an  unpleasant  shock,  and  was  anxious  to 
make  up  to  him  in  personal  affection  what  she  had  apparently' 
compelled  him  to  suffer  for  policy's  sake.  Eugene  did  not 
know  that  in  Angela,  despite  her  smallness  of  body  and  what 
seemed  to  him  her  babyishness  of  spirit,  he  had  to  deal  with  a* 
thinking  woman  who  was  quite  wise  as  to  ways  and  means 
of  handling 'her  personal  affairs.  She  was,  of  course,  whirled 
in  the  maelstrom  of  her  affection  for  Eugene  and  this  was 
confusing,  and  she  did  not  understand  the  emotional  and  philo- 
sophic reaches  of  his  mind;  but  she  did  understand  instinctively 
what  made  for  a  stable  relationship  between  husband  and  wife 
and  between  any  married  couple  and  the  world.  To  her  the 
utterance  of  the  marriage  vow  meant  just  what  it  said,  that 
they  would  cleave  each  to  the  other;  there  should  be  henceforth 
no  thoughts,  feelings,  or  emotions,  and  decidedly  no  actions 
which  would  not  conform  with  the  letter  and  the  spirit  of  the 
marriage  vow. 

Eugene  had  sensed  something  of  this,  but  not  accurately  or 
completely.  He  did  not  correctly  estimate  either  the  courage 
or  the  rigidity  of  her  beliefs  and  convictions.  He  thought 
that  her  character  might  possibly  partake  of  some  of  his  own 
easy  tolerance  and  good  nature.  She  must  know  that  people — 
men  particularly — were  more  or  less  unstable  in  their  make-up. 
Life  could  not  be  governed  by  hard  and  fast  rules.  Why, 
'  everybody  knew  that.  You  might  try,  and  should  hold  yourself 
in  check  as  much  as  possible  for  the  sake  of  self-preservation 
and  social  appearances,  but  if  you  erred — and  you  might  easily — 
it  was  no  crime.  Certainly  it  was  no  crime  to  look  at  another 
woman  longingly.  If  you  went  astray,  overbalanced  by  your 
desires,  wasn't  it  after  all  in  the  scheme  of  things?  Did  we 
make  our  desires?  Certainly  we  did  not,  and  if  we  did  not 
succeed  completely  in  controlling  them — well — 

The  drift  of  life  into  which  they  now  settled  was  interesting 

218 


THE   "GENIUS'1  219 

enough,  though  for  Eugene  it  was  complicated  with  the  thought 
of  possible  failure,  for  he  was,  as  might  well  be  expected  of 
such  a  temperament,  of  a  worrying  nature,  and  inclined,  in  his 
hours  of  ordinary  effort,  to  look  on  the  dark  side  of  things.  The 
fact  that  he  had  married  Angela  against  his  will,  the  fact  that 
he  had  no  definite  art  connections  which  produced  him  as  yet 
anything  more  than  two  thousand  dollars  a  year,  the  fact  that 
he  had  assumed  financial  obligations  which  doubled  the  cost  of 
food,  clothing,  entertainment,  and  rent — for  their  studio  was 
costing  him  thirty  dollars  more  than  had  his  share  of  the 
Smite-MacHugh  chambers — weighed  on  him.  The  dinner  which 
he  had  given  to  Smite  and  MacHugh  had  cost  about  eight  dollars 
over  and  above  the  ordinary  expenses  of  the  week.  Others 
of  a  similar  character  would  cost  as  much  and  more.  He  would 
have  to  take  Angela  to  the  theatre  occasionally.  There  would  be 
the  need  of  furnishing  a  new  studio  the  following  fall,  unless 
another  such  windfall  as  this  manifested  itself.  Although  Angela 
had  equipped  herself  with  a  varied  and  serviceable  trousseau, 
her  clothes  would  not  last  forever.  Odd  necessities  began  to  crop 
up  not  long  after  they  were  married,  and  he  began  to  see 
that  if  they  lived  with  anything  like  the  freedom  and  care 
with  which  he  had  before  he  was  married,  his  income  would 
have  to  be  larger  and  surer. 

The  energy  which  these  thoughts  provoked  was  not  without 
result.  For  one  thing  he  sent  the  original  of  the  East  Side 
picture,  "Six  O'clock"  to  the  American  Academy  of  Design 
exhibition — a  thing  wThich  he  might  have  done  long  before  but 
failed  to  do. 

Angela  had  heard  from  Eugene  that  the  National  Academy 
of  Design  was  a  forum  for  the  display  of  art  to  which  the  public 
was  invited  or  admitted  for  a  charge.  To  have  a  picture  ac- 
cepted by  this  society  and  hung  on  the  line  was  in  its  way  a 
mark  of  merit  and  approval,  though  Eugene  did  not  think 
very  highly  of  it.  All  the  pictures  were  judged  by  a  jury  of 
artists  which  decided  whether  they  should  be  admitted  or  re- 
jected, and  if  admitted  whether  they  should  be  given  a  place  of 
honor  or  hung  in  some  inconspicuous  position.  To  be  hung  "on 
the  line"  was  to  have  your  picture  placed  in  the  lower  tier 
where  the  light  was  excellent  and  the  public  could  get  a  good 
view  of  it.  Eugene  had  thought  the  first  two  years  he  was  in 
New  York  that  he  was  really  not  sufficiently  experienced  or 
meritorious,  and  the  previous  year  he  had  thought  that  he  would 
hoard  all  that  he  was  doing  for  his  first  appearance  in  some 
exhibition  of  his  own,  thinking  the  National  Academy  common- 


220  THE   "  GENIUS'1 

place  and  retrogressive.  The  exhibitions  he  had  seen  thus  far 
had  been  full  of  commonplace,  dead-and-alive  stuff,  he  thought. 
It  was  no  great  honor  to  be  admitted  to  such  a  collection.  Now, 
because  MacHugh  was  trying,  and  because  he  had  accumulated 
nearly  enough  pictures  for  exhibition  at  a  private  gallery  which 
he  hoped  to  interest,  he  was  anxious  to  see  what  the  standard 
body  of  American  artists  thought  of  his  work.  They  might 
reject  him.  If  so  that  would  merely  prove  that  they  did  not 
recognize  a  radical  departure  from  accepted  methods  and  sub- 
ject matter  as  art.  The  impressionists,  he  understood,  wrere 
being  so  ignored.  Later  they  would  accept  him.  If  he  w^ere 
admitted  it  would  simply  mean  that  they  knew  better  than  he 
believed  they  did. 

"I  believe  I  will  do  it,"  he  said;  "I'd  like  to  know  what 
they  think  of  my  stuff  anyhow." 

The  picture  was  sent  as  he  had  planned,  and  to  his  immense 
satisfaction  it  was  accepted  and  hung.  It  did  not,  for  some  reason, 
attract  as  much  attention  as  it  might,  but  it  was  not  without 
its  modicum  of  praise.  Owen  Overman,  the  poet,  met  him  in 
the  general  reception  entrance  of  the  Academy  on  the  opening 
night,  and  congratulated  him  sincerely.  "I  remember  seeing 
that  in  Truth"  he  said,  "but  it's  much  better  in  the  original. 
It's  fine.  You  ought  to  do  a  lot  of  those  things." 

"I  am,"  replied  Eugene.  "I  expect  to  have  a  show  of  my 
own  one  of  these  days." 

He  called  Angela,  who  had  wandered  away  to  look  at  a 
piece  of  statuary,  and  introduced  her. 

f"I  was  just  telling  your  husband  how  much  I  like  his 
picture,"  Overman  informed  her. 

Angela  was  flattered  that  her  husband  was  so  much  of  a 
personage  that  he  could  have  his  picture  hung  in  a  great  ex- 
hibition such  as  this,  with  its  walls  crowded  with  what  seemed 
to  her  magnificent  canvases,  and  its  rooms  filled  with  important 
and  distinguished  people.  As  they  strolled  about  Eugene  pointed 
out  to  her  this  well  known  artist  and  that  writer,  saying  al- 
most always  that  they  were  very  able.  He  knew  three  or  four 
of  the  celebrated  collectors,  prize  givers,  and  art  patrons  by 
sight,  and  told  Angela  who  they  were.  There  were  a  number 
of  striking  looking  models  present  whom  Eugene  knew  either 
by  reputation,  whispered  comment  of  friends,  or  personally — 
Zelma  Desmond,  who  had  posed  for  Eugene,  Hedda  Anderson, 
Anna  Magruder  and  Laura  Matthewson  among  others.  Angela 
was  struck  and  in  a  way  taken  by  the  dash  and  beauty  of  these 
girls.  They  carried  themselves  with  an  air  of  personal  freedom 


THE    "GENIUS"  221 

and  courage  which  surprised  her.  Hedda  Anderson  was  bold  in 
her  appearance  but  immensely  smart.  Her  manner  seemed  to 
comment  on  the  ordinary  woman  as  being  indifferent  and  not 
worth  while.  She  looked  at  Angela  walking  with  Eugene  and 
wondered  who  she  was. 

"Isn't  she  striking,"  observed  Angela,  not  knowing  she  was 
anyone  whom  Eugene  knew. 

"I  know  her  well,"  he  replied;  "she's  a  model." 

Just  then  Miss  Anderson  in  return  for  his  nod  gave  him  a 
fetching  smile.  Angela  chilled. 

Elizabeth  Stein  passed  by  and  he  nodded  to  her. 

| Who  is  she?"  asked  Angela. 

"She's  a  socialist  agitator  and  radical.  She  sometimes  speaks 
from  a  soap-box  on  the  East  Side." 

Angela  studied  her  carefully.  Her  waxen  complexion,  smooth 
black  hair  laid  in  even  plaits  over  her  forehead,  her  straight, 
thin,  chiseled  nose,  even  red  lips  and  low  forehead  indicated 
a  daring  and  subtle  soul.  Angela  did  not  understand  her. 
She  could  not  understand  a  girl  as  good  looking  as  that  doing  any 
such  thing  as  Eugene  said,  and  yet  she  had  a  bold,  rather  free 
and  easy  air.  She  thought  Eugene  certainly  knew  strange 
people.  He  introduced  to  her  William  McConnell,  Hudson 
Dula,  who  had  not  yet  been  to  see  them,  Jan  Jansen,  Louis 
Deesa,  Leonard  Baker  and  Paynter  Stone. 

In  regard  to  Eugene's  picture  the  papers,  with  one  exception, 
had  nothing  to  say,  but  this  one  in  both  Eugene's  and  Angela's 
minds  made  up  for  all  the  others.  It  was  the  Evening  Sun, 
a  most  excellent  medium  for  art  opinion,  and  it  was  very  definite 
in  its  conclusions  in  regard  to  this  particular  work.  The  state- 
ment was: 

"A  new  painter,  Eugene  Witla,  has  an  oil  entitled  'Six  O'clock' 
which  for  directness,  virility,  sympathy,  faithfulness  to  detail 
and  what  for  want  of  a  better  term  we  may  call  totality  of  spirit, 
is  quite  the  best  thing  in  the  exhibition.  It  looks  rather  out  of 
place  surrounded  by  the  weak  and  spindling  interpretations  of 
scenery  and  water  which  so  readily  find  a  place  in  the  exhibition 
of  the  Academy,  but  it  is  none  the  weaker  for  that.  The 
artist  has  a  new,  crude,  raw  and  almost  rough  method,  but  his 
picture  seems  to  say  quite  clearly  what  he  sees  and  feels.  He  may 
have  to  wait — if  this  is  not  a  single  burst  of  ability — but  he 
will  have  a  hearing.  There  is  no  question  of  that.  Eugene 
Witla  is  an  artist." 

Eugene  thrilled  when  he  read  this  commentary.  It  was 
quite  what  he  would  have  said  himself  if  he  had  dared.  Angela 


222  THE    "GENIUS" 

was  beside  herself  with  joy.  Who  was  the  critic  who  had  said 
this,  they  wondered?  What  was  he  like?  He  must  be  truly 
an  intellectual  personage.  Eugene  wanted  to  go  and  look  him 
up.  If  one  saw  his  talent  now,  others  would  see  it  later.  It 
was  for  this  reason — though  the  picture  subsequently  came 
back  to  him  unsold,  and  unmentioned  so  far  as  merit  or  prizes 
were  concerned — that  he  decided  to  try  for  an  exhibition  of 
his  own. 


CHAPTER   V 

THE  hope  of  fame — what  hours  of  speculation,  what  pulses 
of  enthusiasm,  what  fevers  of  effort,  are  based  on  that 
peculiarly  subtle  illusion!  It  is  yet  the  lure,  the  ignis  fatuus  of 
almost  every  breathing  heart.  In  the  young  particularly  it 
burns  with  the  sweetness  and  perfume  of  spring  fires.  Then 
most  of  all  does  there  seem  substantial  reality  in  the  shadow 
of  fame — those  deep,  beautiful  illusions  which  tremendous  figures 
throw  over  the  world.  Attainable,  it  seems,  must  be  the  peace 
and  plenty  and  sweet  content  of  fame — that  glamour  of  achieve- 
ment that  never  was  on  sea  or  land.  Fame  partakes  of  the 
beauty  and  freshness  of  the  morning.  It  has  in  it  the  odour  of 
the  rose,  the  feel  of  rich  satin,  the  color  of  the  cheeks  of  youth. 
If  we  could  but  be  famous  when  we  dream  of  fame,  and  not 
when  locks  are  tinged  with  grey,  faces  seamed  with  the  lines 
that  speak  of  past  struggles,  and  eyes  wearied  with  the  tensity,  the 
longings  and  the  despairs  of  years!  To  bestride  the  world  in 
the  morning  of  life,  to  walk  amid  the  plaudits  and  the  huzzahs 
when  love  and  faith  are  young;  to  feel  youth  and  the  world's 
affection  when  youth  and  health  are  sweet — what  dream  is  that, 
of  pure  sunlight  and  moonlight  compounded.  A  sun-kissed 
breath  of  mist  in  the  sky;  the  reflection  of  moonlight  upon 
water;  the  remembrance  of  dreams  to  the  waking  mind — of 
such  is  fame  in  our  youth,  and  never  afterward. 

By  such  an  illusion  was  Eugene's  mind  possessed.  He  had  no 
conception  of  what  life  would  bring  him  for  his  efforts.  He 
thought  if  he  could  have  his  pictures  hung  in  a  Fifth  Avenue 
gallery  much  as  he  had  seen  Bouguereau's  "Venus"  in  Chicago, 
with  people  coming  as  he  had  come  on  that  occasion — it  would 
be  of  great  comfort  and  satisfaction  to  him.  If  he  could  paint 
something  which  would  be  purchased  by  the  Metropolitan 
Museum  in  New  York  he  would  then  be  somewhat  of  a  classic 
figure,  ranking  with  Corot  and  Daubigny  and  Rousseau  of  the 
French  or  with  Turner  and  Watts  and  Millais  of  the  English, 
the  leading  artistic  figures  of  his  pantheon.  These  men  seemed  to 
have  something  which  he  did  not  have,  he  thought,  a  greater 
breadth  of  technique,  a  finer  comprehension  of  color  and  char- 
acter, a  feeling  for  the  subtleties  at  the  back  of  life  which 
somehow  showed  through  what  they  did.  Larger  experience, 
larger  vision,  larger  feeling — these  things  seemed  to  be  imminent 

223 


224  THE    "GENIUS" 

in  the  great  pictures  exhibited  here,  and  it  made  him  a  little  un- 
certain of  himself.  Only  the  criticism  in  the  Evening  Sun 
fortified  him  against  all  thought  of  failure.  He  was  an  artist. 

He  gathered  up  the  various  oils  he  had  done — there  were  some 
twenty-six  all  told  now,  scenes  of  the  rivers,  the  streets,  the 
night  life,  and  so  forth — and  went  over  them  carefully,  touching 
up  details  which  in  the  beginning  he  had  merely  sketched  or 
indicated,  adding  to  the  force  of  a  spot  of  color  here,  modifying 
a  tone  or  shade  there,  and  finally,  after  much  brooding  over  the 
possible  result,  set  forth  to  find  a  gallery  which  would  give  them 
place  and  commercial  approval. 

Eugene's  feeling  was  that  they  were  a  little  raw  and  sketchy — 
that  they  might  not  have  sufficient  human  appeal,  seeing  that 
they  dealt  with  factory  architecture  at  times,  scows,  tugs,  en- 
gines, the  elevated  roads  in  raw  reds,  yellows  and  blacks;  but 
MacHugh,  Dula,  Smite,  Miss  Finch,  Christina,  the  Evening 
Sun,  Norma  Whitmore,  all  had  praised  them,  or  some  of  them. 
Was  not  the  world  much  more  interested  in  the  form  and 
spirit  of  classic  beauty  such  as  that  represented  by  Sir  John 
Millais?  Would  it  not  prefer  Rossetti's  "Blessed  Damozel"  to 
any  street  scene  ever  painted?  He  could  never  be  sure.  In  the 
very  hour  of  his  triumph  when  the  Sun  had  just  praised  his  pic- 
ture, there  lurked  the  spectre  of  possible  intrinsic  weakness.  Did 
the  world  wish  this  sort  of  thing?  Would  it  ever  buy  of  him? 
Was  he  of  any  real  value  ? 

"No,  artist  heart !"  one  might  have  answered,  "of  no  more 
value  than  any  other  worker  of  existence  and  no  less.  The 
sunlight  on  the  corn,  the  color  of  dawn  in  the  maid's  cheek, 
the  moonlight  on  the  water — these  are  of  value  and  of  no  value 
according  to  the  soul  to  whom  is  the  appeal.  Fear  not.  Of 
dreams  and  the  beauty  of  dreams  is  the  world  compounded." 

Kellner  and  Son,  purveyors  of  artistic  treasures  by  both 
past  and  present  masters,  with  offices  in  Fifth  Avenue  near 
Twenty-eighth  Street,  was  the  one  truly  significant  firm  of 
art-dealers  in  the  city.  The  pictures  in  the  windows  of  Kellner 
and  Son,  the  exhibitions  in  their  very  exclusive  show  rooms,  the 
general  approval  which  their  discriminating  taste  evoked,  had 
attracted  the  attention  of  artists  and  the  lay  public  for  fully 
thirty  years.  Eugene  had  followed  their  showrs  with  interest 
ever  since  he  had  been  in  New  York.  He  had  seen,  every  now 
and  then,  a  most  astonishing  picture  of  one  school  or  another 
displayed  in  their  imposing  shop  window,  and  had  heard  ar- 
tists comment  from  time  to  time  on  other  things  there  with 
considerable  enthusiasm.  The  first  important  picture  of  the 


THE    "GENIUS"  225 

impressionistic  school — a  heavy  spring  rain  in  a  grove  of  silver 
poplars  by  Winthrop — had  been  shown  in  the  window  of  this 
firm,  fascinating  Eugene  with  its  technique.  He  had  encountered 
here  collections  of  Aubrey  Beardsley's  decadent  drawings,  of 
Helleu's  silverpoints,  of  Rodin's  astonishing  sculptures  and  Thau- 
low's  solid  Scandinavian  eclecticism.  This  house  appeared  to 
have  capable  artistic  connections  all  over  the  world,  for  the 
latest  art  force  in  Italy,  Spain,  Switzerland,  or  Sweden,  was 
quite  as  likely  to  find  its  timely  expression  here  as  the  more 
accredited  work  of  England,  Germany  or  France.  Kellner  and 
Son  were  art  connoisseurs  in  the  best  sense  of  the  word,  and 
although  the  German  founder  of  the  house  had  died  many  years 
before,  its  management  and  taste  had  never  deteriorated. 

Eugene  did  not  know  at  this  time  how  very  difficult  it  was 
to  obtain  an  exhibition  under  Kellner's  auspices,  they  being 
over-crowded  with  offers  of  art  material  and  appeals  for  display 
from  celebrated  artists  who  were  quite  willing  and  able 
to  pay  for  the  space  and  time  they  occupied.  A  fixed  charge 
was  made,  never  deviated  from  except  in  rare  instances  where 
the  talent  of  the  artist,  his  poverty,  and  the  advisability  of  the 
exhibition  were  extreme.  Two  hundred  dollars  was  considered 
little  enough  for  the  use  of  one  of  their  show  rooms  for  ten  days. 

Eugene  had  no  such  sum  to  spare,  but  one  day  in  January, 
without  any  real  knowledge  as  to  what  the  conditions  were, 
he  carried  four  of  the  reproductions  which  had  been  made 
from  time  to  time  in  Truth  to  the  office  of  Mr.  Kellner,  certain 
that  he  had  something  to  show.  Miss  Whitmore  had  indicated 
to  him  that  Eberhard  Zang  wanted  him  to  come  and  see  him,  but 
he  thought  if  he  was  going  anywhere  he  would  prefer  to  go 
to  Kellner  and  Son.  He  wanted  to  explain  to  Mr.  Kellner,  if 
there  were  such  a  person,  that  he  had  many  more  paintings 
which  he  considered  even  better — more  expressive  of  his  growing 
understanding  of  American  life  and  of  himself  and  his  technique. 
He  went  in  timidly,  albeit  with  quite  an  air,  for  this  adventure 
disturbed  him  much. 

The  American  manager  of  Kellner  and  Son,  M.  Anatole 
Charles,  was  a  Frenchman  by  birth  and  training,  familiar  with 
the  spirit  and  history  of  French  art,  and  with  the  drift  and 
tendency  of  art  in  various  other  sections  of  the  world.  He 
had  been  sent  here  by  the  home  office  in  Berlin  not  only  because 
of  his  very  thorough  training  in  English  art  ways,  and  because  of 
his  ability  to  select  that  type  of  picture  which  would  attract 
attention  and  bring  credit  and  prosperity  to  the  house  here  and 
abroad;  but  also  because  of  his  ability  to  make  friends  among 


226  THE    "GENIUS" 

the  rich  and  powerful  wherever  he  was,  and  to  sell  one  type  of 
important  picture  after  another — having  some  knack  or  magnetic 
capacity  for  attracting  to  him  those  who  cared  for  good  art 
and  were  willing  to  pay  for  it.  His  specialties,  of  course, 
were  the  canvases  of  the  eminently  successful  artists  in  various 
parts  of  the  world — the  living  successful.  He  knew  by  experi- 
ence what  sold — here,  in  France,  in  England,  in  Germany.  He 
was  convinced  that  there  was  practically  nothing  of  value  in 
American  art  as  yet — certainly  not  from  the  commercial  point 
of  view,  and  very  little  from  the  artistic.  Beyond  a  few  can- 
vases by  Inness,  Homer,  Sargent,  Abbey,  Whistler,  men  who 
were  more  foreign,  or  rather  universal,  than  American  in  their 
attitude,  he  considered  that  the  American  art  spirit  was  as  yet 
young  and  raw  and  crude.  "They  do  not  seem  to  be  grown 
up  as  yet  over  here,"  he  said  to  his  intimate  friends.  "They 
paint  little  things  in  a  forceful  way,  but  they  do  not  seem  as  yet 
to  see  things  as  a  whole.  I  miss  that  sense  of  the  universe  in 
miniature  which  we  find  in  the  canvases  of  so  many  of  the 
great  Europeans.  They  are  better  illustrators  than  artists  over 
here — why  I  don't  know." 

M.  Anatole  Charles  spoke  English  almost  more  than  perfectly. 
He  was  an  example  of  your  true  man  of  the  world — polished, 
dignified,  immaculately  dressed,  conservative  in  thought  and 
of  few  words  in  expression.  Critics  and  art  enthusiasts  were  con- 
stantly running  to  him  with  this  and  that  suggestion  in  regard 
to  this  and  that  artist,  but  he  only  lifted  his  sophisticated  eye- 
brows, curled  his  superior  mustachios,  pulled  at  his  highly  artistic 
goatee,  and  exclaimed:  "Ah!"  or  "So?"  He  asserted  always 
that  he  was  most  anxious  to  find  talent — profitable  talent — 
though  on  occasion  (and  he  would  demonstrate  that  by  an 
outward  wave  of  his  hands  and  a  shrug  of  his  shoulders),  the 
house  of  Kellner  and  Son  was  not  averse  to  doing  what  it 
could  for  art — and  that  for  art's  sake  without  any  thought 
of  profit  whatsoever.  "Where  are  your  artists?"  he  would  ask. 
"I  look  and  look.  Whistler,  Abbey,  Inness,  Sargent — ah — 
they  are  old,  where  are  the  new  ones?" 

"Well,  this  one" — the  critic  would  probably  persist. 

"Well,  well,  I  go.  I  shall  look.  But  I  have  little  hope- 
very,  very  little  hope." 

He  was  constantly  appearing  under  such  pressure,  at  this  studio 
and  that — examining,  criticising.  Alas,  he  selected  the  work 
of  but  few  artists  for  purposes  of  public  exhibition  and  usually 
charged  them  well  for  it. 

It  was  this  man,  polished,  artistically  superb  in  his  way,  whom 


THE    "GENIUS''  227 

Eugene  was  destined  to  meet  this  morning.  When  he  entered 
the  sumptuously  furnished  office  of  M.  Charles  the  latter 
arose.  He  was  seated  at  a  little  rosewood  desk  lighted  by  a  lamp 
with  green  silk  shade.  One  glance  told  him  that  Eugene  was 
an  artist — very  likely  of  ability,  more  than  likely  of  a  sensitive, 
high-strung  nature.  He  had  long  since  learned  that  politeness 
and  savoir  faire  cost  nothing.  It  was  the  first  essential  so  far  as 
the  good  will  of  an  artist  was  concerned.  Eugene's  card  and 
message  brought  by  a  uniformed  attendant  had  indicated  the 
nature  of  his  business.  As  he  approached,  M.  Charles'  raised 
eyebrows  indicated  that  he  would  be  very  pleased  to  know  what 
he  could  do  for  Mr.  Witla. 

"I  should  like  to  show  you  several  reproductions  of  pictures  of 
mine,"  began  Eugene  in  his  most  courageous  manner.  "I  have 
been  working  on  a  number  with  a  view  to  making  a  show  and 
I  thought  that  possibly  you  might  be  interested  in  looking  at  them 
with  a  view  to  displaying  them  for  me.  I  have  twenty-six  all 
told  and—' 

"Ah!  that  is  a  difficult  thing  to  suggest,"  replied  M. 
Charles  cautiously.  "We  have  a  great  many  exhibitions  scheduled 
now — enough  to  carry  us  through  two  years  if  we  considered 
nothing  more.  Obligations  to  artists  with  whom  we  have 
dealt  in  the  past  take  up  a  great  deal  of  our  time.  Contracts, 
which  our  Berlin  and  Paris  branches  enter  into,  sometimes 
crowd  out  our  local  shows  entirely,.  Of  course,  we  are  always 
anxious  to  make  interesting  exhibitions  if  opportunity  should 
permit.  You  know  our  charges?" 

"No,"  said  Eugene,  surprised  that  there  should  be  any. 

"Two  hundred  dollars  for  two  weeks.  We  do  not  take 
exhibitions  for  less  than  that  time." 

Eugene's  countenance  fell.  He  had  expected  quite  a  different 
reception.  Nevertheless,  since  he  had  brought  them,  he  untied 
the  tape  of  the  portfolio  in  which  the  prints  were  laid. 

M.  Charles  looked  at  them  curiously.  He  was  much  impressed 
with  the  picture  of  the  East  Side  Crowd  at  first,  but  looking  at 
one  of  Fifth  Avenue  in  a  snow  storm,  the  battered,  shabby  bus 
pulled  by  a  team  of  lean,  unkempt,  bony  horses,  he  paused, 
struck  by  its  force.  He  liked  the  delineation  of  swirling,  wind- 
driven  snow.  The  emptiness  of  this  thoroughfare,  usually  so 
crowded,  the  buttoned,  huddled,  hunched,  withdrawn  look  of 
those  who  traveled  it,  the  exceptional  details  of  piles  of  snow 
sifted  on  to  window  sills  and  ledges  and  into  doorways  and  on  to 
the  windows  of  the  bus  itself,  attracted  his  attention. 

"An  effective  detail,"  he  said  to  Eugene,  as  one  critic  might 


228  THE   "GENIUS" 

say  to  another,  pointing  to  a  line  of  white  snow  on  the  window 
of  one  side  of  the  bus.  Another  dash  of  snow  on  a  man's  hat 
rim  took  his  eye  also.  "I  can  feel  the  wind/'  he  added. 

Eugene  smiled. 

M.  Charles  passed  on  in  silence  to  the  steaming  tug  coming  up 
the  East  River  in  the  dark  hauling  two  great  freight  barges. 
He  was  saying  to  himself  that  after  all  Eugene's  art  was  that 
of  merely  seizing  upon  the  obviously  dramatic.  It  wasn't  so  much 
the  art  of  color  composition  and  life  analysis  as  it  was  stage 
craft.  The  man  before  him  had  the  ability  to  see  the  dramatic 
side  of  life.  Still — 

He  turned  to  the  last  reproduction  which  was  that  of 
Greeley  Square  in  a  drizzling  rain.  Eugene  by  some  mystery 
of  his  art  had  caught  the  exact  texture  of  seeping  water  on  gray 
stones  in  the  glare  of  various  electric  lights.  He  had  caught  the 
values  of  various  kinds  of  lights,  those  in  cabs,  those  in  cable 
cars,  those  in  shop  windows,  those  in  the  street  lamp — re- 
lieving by  them  the  black  shadows  of  the  crowds  and  of  the  sky. 
The  color  work  here  was  unmistakably  good. 

"How  large  are  the  originals  of  these?"  he  asked  thoughtfully. 

"Nearly   all   of    them    thirty   by   forty." 

Eugene  could  not  tell  by  his  manner  whether  he  were  merely 
curious  or  interested. 

"All  of  them  done  in  oil,  I  fancy." 

"Yes,  all." 

"They  are  not  bad,  I  must  say,"  he  observed  cautiously.  "A 
little  persistently  dramatic  but — " 

"These  reproductions —  "  began  Eugene,  hoping  by  criticising 
the  press  work  to  interest  him  in  the  superior  quality  of  the 
originals. 

"Yes,  I  see,"  M.  Charles  interrupted,  knowing  full  well  what 
was  coming.  "They  are  very  bad.  Still  they  show  well  enough 
what  the  originals  are  like.  Where  is  your  studio?" 

"6 1  Washington  Square." 

"As  I  say,"  went  on  M.  Charles,  noting  the  address  on 
Eugene's  card,  "the  opportunity  for  exhibition  purposes  is  very 
limited  and  our  charge  is  rather  high.  We  have  so  many 
things  we  would  like  to  exhibit — so  many  things  we  must  ex- 
hibit. It  is  hard  to  say  when  the  situation  would  permit — If 
you  are  interested  I  might  come  and  see  them  sometime." 

Eugene  looked  perturbed.  Two  hundred  dollars !  Two  hun- 
dred dollars!  Could  he  afford  it?  It  would  mean  so  much  to 
him.  And  yet  the  man  was  not  at  all  anxious  to  rent  him  the 
show  room  even  at  this  price. 


THE   "GENIUS"  229 

"I  will  come,"  said  M.  Charles,  seeing  his  mood,  "if  you  wish. 
That  is  what  you  want  me  to  do.  We  have  to  be  careful  of 
what  we  exhibit  here.  It  isn't  as  if  it  were  an  ordinary  show 
room.  I  will  drop  you  a  card  some  day  when  occasion  offers, 
if  you  wish,  and  you  can  let  me  know  whether  the  time  I  sug- 
gest is  all  right.  I  am  rather  anxious  to  see  these  scenes  of 
yours.  They  are  very  good  of  their  kind.  It  may  be — one 
never  can  tell — an  opportunity  might  offer — a  week  or  ten 
days,  somewhere  in  between  other  things." 

Eugene  sighed  inwardly.  So  this  was  how  these  things  were 
done.  It  wasn't  very  flattering.  Still,  he  must  have  an  ex- 
hibition. He  could  afford  two  hundred  if  he  had  to.  An 
exhibition  elsewhere  would  not  be  so  valuable.  He  had  ex- 
pected to  make  a  better  impression  than  this. 

"I  wish  you  would  come,"  he  said  at  last  meditatively.  "I 
think  I  should  like  the  space  if  I  can  get  it.  I  would  like  to 
know  what  you  think." 

M.  Charles  raised  his  eyebrows. 

"Very  well,"  he  said,  "I  will  communicate  with  you." 

Eugene  went  out. 

What  a  poor  thing  this  exhibiting  business  was,  he  thought. 
Here  he  had  been  dreaming  of  an  exhibition  at  Kellners  which 
should  be  brought  about  without  charge  to  him  because  they  were 
tremendously  impressed  with  his  work.  Now  they  did  not  even 
want  his  pictures — would  charge  him  two  hundred  dollars  to 
show  them.  It  was  a  great  come  down — very  discouraging. 

Still  he  went  home  thinking  it  would  do  him  some  good. 
The  critics  would  discuss  his  work  just  as  they  did  that  of  other 
artists.  They  would  have  to  see  what  he  could  do  should  it 
be  that  at  last  this  thing  which  he  had  dreamed  of  and  so  deliber- 
ately planned  had  come  true.  He  had  thought  of  an  exhibition 
at  Kellner's  as  the  last  joyous  thing  to  be  attained  in  the 
world  of  rising  art  and  now  it  looked  as  though  he  was  near  it. 
It  might  actually  be  coming  to  pass.  This  man  wanted  to  see  the 
rest  of  his  work.  He  was  not  opposed  to  looking  at  them. 
What  a  triumph  even  that  was ! 


CHAPTER   VI 

IT  was  some  little  time  before  M.  Charles  condescended  to 
write  saying  that  if  it  was  agreeable  he  would  call  Wednes- 
day morning,  January  i6th,  at  10  A.  M.,  but  the  letter  finally 
did  come  and  this  dispelled  all  his  intermediary  doubts  and 
fears.  At  last  he  was  to  have  a  hearing!  This  man  might  see 
something  in  his  work,  possibly  take  a  fancy  to  it.  Who  could 
tell  ?  He  showed  the  letter  to  Angela  with  an  easy  air  as  though 
it  were  quite  a  matter  of  course,  but  he  felt  intensely  hopeful. 

Angela  put  the  studio  in  perfect  order  for  she  knew 
what  this  visit  meant  to  Eugene,  and  in  her  eager,  faithful 
way  was  anxious  to  help  him  as  much  as  possible.  She  bought 
flowers  from  the  Italian  florist  at  the  corner  and  put  them  in 
vases  here  and  there.  She  swept  and  dusted,  dressed  herself 
immaculately  in  her  most  becoming  house  dress  and  waited 
with  nerves  at  high  tension  for  the  fateful  ring  of  the  door 
bell.  Eugene  pretended  to  work  at  one  of  his  pictures  which 
he  had  done  long  before — the  raw  jangling  wall  of  an  East 
Side  street  with  its  swarms  of  children,  its  shabby  push-carts, 
its  mass  of  eager,  shuffling,  pushing  mortals,  the  sense  of  rugged 
ground  life  running  all  through  it,  but  he  had  no  heart  for 
the  work.  He  was  asking  himself  over  and  over  what  M. 
Charles  would  think.  Thank  heaven  this  studio  looked  so 
charming!  Thank  heaven  Angela  was  so  dainty  in  her  pale 
green  gown  with  a  single  red  coral  pin  at  her  throat.  He 
walked  to  the  window  and  stared  out  at  Washington  Square, 
with  its  bare,  wind-shaken  branches  of  trees,  its  snow,  its  ant- 
like  pedestrians  hurrying  here  and  there.  If  he  were  only  rich — 
how  peacefully  he  would  paint!  M.  Charles  could  go  to  the 
devil. 

The  door  bell  rang. 

Angela  clicked  a  button  and  up  came  M.  Charles  quietly. 
They  could  hear  his  steps  in  the  hall.  He  knocked  and  Eugene 
answered,  decidedly  nervous  in  his  mind,  but  outwardly  calm 
and  dignified.  M.  Charles  entered,  clad  in  a  fur-lined  over- 
coat, fur  cap  and  yellow  chamois  gloves. 

"Ah,  good  morning!''  said  M.  Charles  in  greeting.  "A 
fine  bracing  day,  isn't  it?  What  a  charming  view  you  have 
here.  Mrs.  Witla!  I'm  delighted  to  meet  you.  I  am  a  little 

230 


THE  "GENIUS''  231 

late  but   I   was  unavoidably   detained.     One   of   our   German 
associates  is  in  the  city." 

He  divested  himself  of  his  great  coat  and  rubbed  his  hands 
before  the  fire.  He  tried,  now  that  he  had  unbent  so  far,  to  be 
genial  and  considerate.  If  he  and  Eugene  were  to  do  any 
business  in  the  future  it  must  be  so.  Besides  the  picture  on  the 
easel  before  him,  near  the  window,  which  for  the  time  being 
he  pretended  not  to  see,  was  an  astonishingly  virile  thing. 
Of  whose  work  did  it  remind  him — anybody's?  He  con- 
fessed to  himself  as  he  stirred  around  among  his  numerous  art 
memories  that  he  recalled  nothing  exactly  like  it.  Raw  reds, 
raw  greens,  dirty  grey  paving  stones — such  faces !  Why  this  thing 
fairly  shouted  its  facts.  It  seemed  to  say:  "I'm  dirty,  I  am  com- 
monplace, I  am  grim,  I  am  shabby,  but  I  am  life."  And  there 
was  no  apologizing  for  anything  in  it,  no  glossing  anything 
over.  Bang!  Smash!  Crack!  came  the  facts  one  after  another, 
with  a  bitter,  brutal  insistence  on  their  so-ness.  Why,  on 
moody  days  when  he  had  felt  sour  and  depressed  he  had  seen 
somewhere  a  street  that  looked  like  this,  and  there  it  was — dirty, 
sad,  slovenly,  immoral,  drunken — anything,  everything,  but  here 
it  was.  "Thank  God  for  a  realist,"  he  said  to  himself  as  he 
looked,  for  he  knew  life,  this  cold  connoisseur;  but  he  made  no 
sign.  He  looked  at  the  tall,  slim  frame  of  Eugene,  his  cheeks 
slightly  sunken,  his  eyes  bright — an  artist  every  inch  of  him, 
and  then  at  Angela,  small,  eager,  a  sweet,  loving,  little  woman, 
and  he  was  glad  that  he  was  going  to  be  able  to  say  that  he 
would  exhibit  these  things. 

"Well,"  he  said,  pretending  to  look  at  the  picture  on  the 
easel  for  the  first  time,  "we  might  as  well  begin  to  look 
at  these  things.  I  see  you  have  one  here.  Very  good,  I  think, 
quite  forceful.  What  others  have  you?" 

Eugene  was  afraid  this  one  hadn't  appealed  to  him  as  much 
as  he  hoped  it  would,  and  set  it  aside  quickly,  picking  up  the 
second  in  the  stock  which  stood  against  the  wall,  covered  by 
a  green  curtain.  It  was  the  three  engines  entering  the  great 
freight  yard  abreast,  the  smoke  of  the  engines  towering  straight 
up  like  tall  whitish-grey  plumes,  in  the  damp,  cold  air,  the  sky 
lowering  with  blackish-grey  clouds,  the  red  and  yellow  and  blue 
cars  standing  out  in  the  sodden  darkness  because  of  the  water. 
You  could  feel  the  cold,  wet  drizzle,  the  soppy  tracks,  the 
weariness  of  "throwing  switches."  There  was  a  lone  brakeman 
in  the  foreground,  "throwing"  a  red  brake  signal.  He  was 
quite  black  and  evidently  wet. 

"A  symphony  in  grey,"  said  M.  Charles  succinctly. 


232  THE   "GENIUS" 

They  came  swiftly  after  this,  without  much  comment  from 
either,  Eugene  putting  one  canvas  after  another  before  him, 
leaving  it  for  a  few  moments  and  replacing  it  with  another. 
His  estimate  of  his  own  work  did  not  rise  very  rapidly,  for 
M.  Charles  was  persistently  distant,  but  the  latter  could  not  help 
voicing  approval  of  "After  The  Theatre,"  a  painting  full  of  the 
wonder  and  bustle  of  a  night  crowd  under  sputtering  electric 
lamps.  He  saw  that  Eugene  had  covered  almost  every  phase 
of  what  might  be  called  the  dramatic  spectacle  in  the  public 
life  of  the  city  and  much  that  did  not  appear  dramatic  until  he 
touched  it — the  empty  canyon  of  Broadway  at  three  o'clock  in 
the  morning ;  a  long  line  of  giant  milk  wagons,  swinging  curious 
lanterns,  coming  up  from  the  docks  at  four  o'clock  in  the  morn- 
ing; a  plunging  parade  of  fire  vehicles,  the  engines  steaming 
smoke,  the  people  running  or  staring  open-mouthed;  a  crowd 
of  polite  society  figures  emerging  from  the  opera;  the  bread 
line;  an  Italian  boy  throwing  pigeons  in  the  air  from  a  basket 
on  his  arm  in  a  crowded  lower  West-side  street.  Everything  he 
touched  seemed  to  have  romance  and  beauty,  and  yet  it  was  real 
and  mostly  grim  and  shabby. 

"I  congratulate  you,  Mr.  Witla,"  finally  exclaimed  M. 
Charles,  moved  by  the  ability  of  the  man  and  feeling  that  caution 
was  no  longer  necessary.  "To  me  this  is  wonderful  material, 
much  more  effective  than  the  reproductions  show,  dramatic  and 
true.  I  question  whether  you  wTill  make  any  money  out  of  it. 
There  is  very  little  sale  for  American  art  in  this  country.  It 
might  almost  do  better  in  Europe.  It  ought  to  sell,  but  that 
is  another  matter.  The  best  things  do  not  always  sell  readily. 
It  takes  time.  Still  I  will  do  what  I  can.  I  wTill  give  these 
pictures  a  two  weeks'  display  early  in  April  without  any  charge 
to  you  whatever."  (Eugene  started.)  "I  will  call  them  to 
the  attention  of  those  who  know.  I  will  speak  to  those  who  buy. 
It  is  an  honor,  I  assure  you,  to  do  this.  I  consider  you  an 
artist  in  every  sense  of  the  word — I  might  say  a  great  artist. 
You  ought,  if  you  preserve  yourself  sanely  and  with  caution, 
to  go  far,  very  far.  I  shall  be  glad  to  send  for  these  when  the 
time  comes." 

Eugene  did  not  know  how  to  reply  to  this.  He  did  not  quite 
understand  the  European  seriousness  of  method,  its  appreciation 
of  genius,  which  was  thus  so  easily  and  sincerely  expressed  in 
a  formal  way.  M.  Charles  meant  every  word  he  said.  This 
was  one  of  those  rare  and  gratifying  moments  of  his  life  when 
he  was  permitted  to  extend  to  waiting  and  unrecognized  genius 
the  assurance  of  the  consideration  and  approval  of  the  world. 


THE    "GENIUS'  233 

He  stood  there  waiting  to  hear  what  Eugene  would  say,  but 
the  latter  only  flushed  under  his  pale  skin. 

"I'm  very  glad,"  he  said  at  last,  in  his  rather  commonplace, 
off-hand,  American  way.  "I  thought  they  were  pretty  good 
but  I  wasn't  sure.  I'm  very  grateful  to  you." 

"You  need  not  feel  gratitude  toward  me,"  returned  M. 
Charles,  now  modifying  his  formal  manner.  "You  can  congratu- 
late yourself — your  art.  I  am  honored,  as  I  tell  you.  We  will 
make  a  fine  display  of  them.  You  have  no  frames  for  these? 
Well,  never  mind,  I  will  lend  you  frames." 

He  smiled  and  shook  Eugene's  hand  and  congratulated  Angela. 
She  had  listened  to  this  address  with  astonishment  and  swelling 
pride.  She  had  perceived,  despite  Eugene's  manner,  the  anxiety 
he  was  feeling,  the  intense  hopes  he  was  building  on  the  outcome 
of  this  meeting.  M.  Charles'  opening  manner  had  deceived  her. 
She  had  felt  that  he  did  not  care  so  much  after  all,  and  that 
Eugene  was  going  to  be  disappointed.  Now,  when  this  burst 
of  approval  came,  she  hardly  knew  what  to  make  of  it.  She 
looked  at  Eugene  and  saw  that  he  was  intensely  moved  by 
not  only  a  sense  of  relief,  but  pride  and  joy.  His  pale,  dark 
face  showed  it.  To  see  this  load  of  care  taken  off  him  whom 
she  loved  so  deeply  was  enough  to  unsettle  Angela.  She  found 
herself  stirred  in  a  pathetic  way  and  now,  when  M.  Charles 
turned  to  her,  tears  wrelled  to  her  eyes. 

"Don't  cry,  Mrs.  Witla,"  he  said  grandly  on  seeing  this. 
"You  have  a  right  to  be  proud  of  your  husband.  He  is  a 
great  artist.  You  should  take  care  of  him." 

"Oh,  I'm  so  happy,"  half-laughed  and  half-sobbed  Angela, 
"I  can't  help  it." 

She  went  over  to  where  Eugene  was  and  put  her  face  against 
his  coat.  Eugene  slipped  his  arm  about  her  and  smiled  sympa- 
thetically. M.  Charles  smiled  also,  proud  of  the  effect  of  his 
words.  "You  both  have  a  right  to  feel  very  happy,"  he  said. 

"Little  Angela!"  thought  Eugene.  This  was  your  true  wife 
for  you,  your  good  woman.  Her  husband's  success  meant  all 
to  her.  She  had  no  life  of  her  own — nothing  outside  of  him 
and  his  good  fortune. 

M.  Charles  smiled.  "Well,  I  will  be  going  now,"  he  said 
finally.  "I  will  send  for  the  pictures  when  the  time  comes.  And 
meanwhile  you  two  must  come  with  me  to  dinner.  I  will 
let  you  know." 

He  bowed  himself  out  with  many  assurances  of  good  will, 
and  then  Angela  and  Eugene  looked  at  each  other. 

"Oh,    isn't   it   lovely,    Honeybun,"   she   cried,   half   giggling, 


234  THE    "GENIUS" 

half  crying.  (She  had  begun  to  call  him  Honeybun  the  first 
day  they  were  married.)  "My  Eugene  a  great  artist.  He  said 
it  was  a  great  honor!  Isn't  that  lovely?  And  all  the  world  is 
going  to  know  it  soon,  now.  Isn't  that  fine!  Oh  dear,  I'm 
so  proud."  And  she  threw  her  arms  ecstatically  about  his  neck. 

Eugene  kissed  her  affectionately.  He  was  not  thinking  so 
much  of  her  though  as  he  was  of  Kellner  and  Son — their  great 
exhibit  room,  the  appearance  of  these  twenty-seven  or  thirty 
great  pictures  in  gold  frames;  the  spectators  who  might  come  to 
see;  the  newspaper  criticisms;  the  voices  of  approval.  Now  all 
his  artist  friends  would  know  that  he  was  considered  a  great 
artist;  he  was  to  have  a  chance  to  associate  on  equal  terms  with 
men  like  Sargent  and  Whistler  if  he  ever  met  them.  The 
world  would  hear  of  him  widely.  His  fame  might  go  to  the 
uttermost  parts  of  the  earth. 

He  went  to  the  window  after  a  time  and  looked  out.  There 
came  back  to  his  mind  Alexandria,  the  printing  shop,  the  Peoples' 
Furniture  Company  in  Chicago,  the  Art  Students  League,  the 
Daily  Globe.  Surely  he  had  come  by  devious  paths. 

"Gee!"  he  exclaimed  at  last  simply.  "Smite  and  MacHugh'll 
be  glad  to  hear  this.  I'll  have  to  go  over  and  tell  them." 


CHAPTER   VII 

THE  exhibition  which  followed  in  April  was  one  of  those 
things  which  happen  to  fortunate  souls — a  complete  flow- 
ering out  before  the  eyes  of  the  world  of  its  feelings,  emotions, 
perceptions,  and  understanding.  We  all  have  our  feelings  and 
emotions,  but  lack  the  power  of  self-expression.  It  is  true, 
the  work  and  actions  of  any  man  are  to  some  degree  expressions 
of  character,  but  this  is  a  different  thing.  The  details  of  most 
lives  are  not  held  up  for  public  examination  at  any  given  time. 
We  do  not  see  succinctly  in  any  given  place  just  what  an  in- 
dividual thinks  and  feels.  Even  the  artist  is  not  always  or 
often  given  the  opportunity  of  collected  public  expression  under 
conspicuous  artistic  auspices.  Some  are  so  fortunate — many 
are  not.  Eugene  realized  that  fortune  was  showering  its 
favors  upon  him. 

When  the  time  came,  M.  Charles  was  so  kind  as  to  send  for 
the  pictures  and  to  arrange  all  the  details.  He  had  decided 
with  Eugene  that  because  of  the  vigor  of  treatment  and  the 
prevailing  color  scheme  black  frames  would  be  the  best.  The 
principal  exhibition  room  on  the  ground  floor  in  which  these 
paintings  were  to  be  hung  was  heavily  draped  in  red  velvet  and 
against  this  background  the  different  pictures  stood  out  effectively. 
Eugene  visited  the  show  room  at  the  time  the  pictures  were  being 
hung,  with  Angela,  with  Smite  and  MacHugh,  Shotmeyer  and 
others.  He  had  long  since  notified  Norma  Whitmore  and 
Miriam  Finch,  but  not  the  latter  until  after  Wheeler  had  had 
time  to  tell  her.  This  also  chagrined  her,  for  she  felt  in  this 
as  she  had  about  his  marriage,  that  he  was  purposely  neglecting 
her. 

The  dream  finally  materialized — a  room  eighteen  by  forty, 
hung  with  dark  red  velvet,  irradiated  with  a  soft,  illuminating 
glow  from  hidden  lamps  in  which  Eugene's  pictures  stood  forth 
in  all  their  rawness  and  reality — almost  as  vigorous  as  life 
itself.  To  some  people,  those  who  do  not  see  life  clearly  and 
directly,  but  only  through  other  people's  eyes,  they  seemed  more 
so. 

For  this  reason  Eugene's  exhibition  of  pictures  was  an  aston- 
ishing thing  to  most  of  those  who  saw  it.  It  concerned  phases 
of  life  which  in  the  main  they  had  but  casually  glanced  at,  things 
which  because  they  were  commonplace  and  customary  were 

235 


236  THE    "GENIUS'1 

supposedly  beyond  the  pale  of  artistic  significance.  One  picture 
in  particular,  a  great  hulking,  ungainly  negro,  a  positively 
animal  man,  his  ears  thick  and  projecting,  his  lips  fat,  his 
nose  flat,  his  cheek  bones  prominent,  his  whole  body  expressing 
brute  strength  and  animal  indifference  to  dirt  and  cold,  illus- 
trated this  point  particularly.  He  was  standing  in  a  cheap, 
commonplace  East  Side  street.  The  time  evidently  was  a  Janu- 
ary or  February  morning.  His  business  was  driving  an  ash 
cart,  and  his  occupation  at  the  moment  illustrated  by  the  pic- 
ture was  that  of  lifting  a  great  can  of  mixed  ashes,  paper  and 
garbage  to  the  edge  of  the  ungainly  iron  wagon.  His  hands 
were  immense  and  were  covered  with  great  red  patched  woolen 
and  leather  gloves — dirty,  bulbous,  inconvenient,  one  would 
have  said.  His  head  and  ears  were  swaddled  about  by  a  red 
flannel  shawl  or  strip  of  cloth  which  was  knotted  under  his 
pugnacious  chin,  and  his  forehead,  shawl  and  all,  surmounted 
by  a  brown  canvas  cap  with  his  badge  and  number  as  a  garbage 
driver  on  it.  About  his  waist  was  tied  a  great  piece  of  rough 
coffee  sacking  and  his  arms  and  legs  looked  as  though  he  might 
have  on  two  or  three  pairs  of  trousers  and  as  many  vests.  He 
was  looking  purblindly  down  the  shabby  street,  its  hard  crisp 
snow  littered  with  tin  cans,  paper,  bits  of  slop  and  offal.  Dust — 
gray  ash  dust,  was  flying  from  his  upturned  can.  In  the  distance 
behind  him  was  a  milk  wagon,  a  few  pedestrians,  a  little  thinly 
clad  girl  coming  out  of  a  delicatessen  store.  Over  head  were 
dull  small-paned  windows,  some  shutters  with  a  few  of  their 
slats  broken  out,  a  frowsy  headed  man  looking  out  evidently  to 
see  whether  the  day  was  cold. 

Eugene  was  so  cruel  in  his  indictment  of  life.  He  seemed 
to  lay  on  his  details  with  bitter  lack  of  consideration.  Like 
a  slavedriver  lashing  a  slave  he  spared  no  least  shade  of  his 
cutting  brush.  "Thus,  and  thus  and  thus"  (he  seemed  to  say) 
"is  it."  "What  do  you  think  of  this?  and  this?  and  this?" 

People  came  and  stared.  Young  society  matrons,  art  dealers, 
art  critics,  the  literary  element  who  were  interested  in  art, 
some  musicians,  and,  because  the  newspapers  made  especial  men- 
tion of  it,  quite  a  number  of  those  who  run  wherever  they 
imagine  there  is  something  interesting  to  see.  It  was  quite  a 
notable  two  weeks'  display.  Miriam  Finch  (though  she  never 
admitted  to  Eugene  that  she  had  seen  it — she  would  not  give  him 
that  satisfaction)  Norma  Whitmore,  William  McConnell, 
Louis  Deesa,  Owen  Overman,  Paynter  Stone,  the  whole  ruck 
and  rabble  of  literary  and  artistic  life,  came.  There  were 
artists  of  great  ability  there  whom  Eugene  had  never  seen  be- 


THE    '"GENIUS"  237 

fore.  It  would  have  pleased  him  immensely  if  he  had  chanced  to 
see  several  of  the  city's  most  distinguished  social  leaders  looking, 
at  one  time  and  another,  at  his  pictures.  All  his  observers  were 
astonished  at  his  virility,  curious  as  to  his  personality,  curious 
as  to  what  motive,  or  significance,  or  point  of  view  it  might 
have.  The  more  eclectically  cultured  turned  to  the  newspapers 
to  see  what  the  art  critics  would  say  of  this — how  they  would 
label  it.  Because  of  the  force  of  the  work,  the  dignity  and 
critical  judgment  of  Kellner  and  Son,  the  fact  that  the  public 
of  its  own  instinct  and  volition  was  interested,  most  of  the 
criticisms  were  favorable.  One  art  publication,  connected  with 
and  representative  of  the  conservative  tendencies  of  a  great 
publishing  house,  denied  the  merit  of  the  collection  as  a  whole, 
ridiculed  the  artist's  insistence  on  shabby  details  as  having  artistic 
merit,  denied  that  he  could  draw  accurately,  denied  that  he  was 
a  lover  of  pure  beauty,  and  accused  him  of  having  no  higher 
ideal  than  that  of  desire  to  shock  the  current  mass  by  painting 
brutal  things  brutally. 

"Mr.  Witla,"  wrote  this  critic,  "would  no  doubt  be  flattered 
if  he  were  referred  to  as  an  American  Millet.  The  brutal 
exaggeration  of  that  painter's  art  would  probably  testify  to  him 
of  his  own  merit.  He  is  mistaken.  The  great  Frenchman  was 
a  lover  of  humanity,  a  reformer  in  spirit,  a  master  of  drawing 
and  composition.  There  was  nothing  of  this  cheap  desire  to 
startle  and  offend  by  what  he  did.  If  we  are  to  have  ash  cans 
and  engines  and  broken-down  bus-horses  thrust  down  our  throats 
as  art,  Heaven  preserve  us.  We  had  better  turn  to  commonplace 
photography  at  once  and  be  done  with  it.  Broken  window 
shutters,  dirty  pavements,  half  frozen  ash  cart  drivers,  over- 
drawn, heavily  exaggerated  figures  of  policemen,  tenement  har- 
ridans, beggars,  panhandlers,  sandwich  men — of  such  is  Art 
according  to  Eugene  Witla." 

Eugene  winced  when  he  read  this.  For  the  time  being  it 
seemed  true  enough.  His  art  was  shabby.  Yet  there  were 
others  like  Luke  Severas  who  went  to  the  other  extreme. 

"A  true  sense  of  the  pathetic,  a  true  sense  of  the  dramatic, 
the  ability  to  endow  color — not  with  its  photographic  value, 
though  to  the  current  thought  it  may  seem  so — but  with  its 
higher  spiritual  significance;  the  ability  to  indict  life  with  its 
own  grossness,  to  charge  it  prophetically  with  its  own  meanness 
and  cruelty  in  order  that  mayhap  it  may  heal  itself ;  the  ability  to 
see  wherein  is  beauty — even  in  shame  and  pathos  and  degrada- 
tion; of  such  is  this  man's  work.  He  comes  from  the  soil 
apparently,  fresh  to  a  great  task.  There  is  no  fear  here,  no 


238  THE   "GENIUS" 

bowing  to  traditions,  no  recognition  of  any  of  the  accepted 
methods.  It  is  probable  that  he  may  not  know  what  the  accepted 
methods  are.  So  much  the  better.  We  have  a  new  method.  The 
world  is  the  richer  for  that.  As  we  have  said  before,  Mr. 
Witla  may  have  to  wait  for  his  recognition.  It  is  certain 
that  these  pictures  will  not  be  quickly  purchased  and  hung  in 
parlors.  The  average  art  lover  does  not  take  to  a  new  thing 
so  readily.  But  if  he  persevere,  if  his  art  does  not  fail  him, 
his  turn  will  come.  It  cannot  fail.  He  is  a  great  artist. 
May  he  live  to  realize  it  consciously  and  in  his  owrn  soul." 

Tears  leaped  to  Eugene's  eyes  whan  he  read  this.  The 
thought  that  he  was  a  medium  for  some  noble  and  super-human 
purpose  thickened  the  cords  in  his  throat  until  they  felt  like  a 
lump.  He  wanted  to  be  a  great  artist,  he  wanted  to  be  worthy 
of  the  appreciation  that  was  thus  extended  to  him.  He  thought 
of  all  the  writers  and  artists  and  musicians  and  connoisseurs  of 
pictures  who  would  read  this  and  remember  him.  It  was  just 
possible  that  from  now  onwards  some  of  his  pictures  would  sell. 
He  would  be  so  glad  to  devote  himself  to  this  sort  of  thing — 
to  quit  magazine  illustration  entirely.  How  ridiculous  the  latter 
was,  how  confined  and  unimportant.  Henceforth,  unless  driven 
by  sheer  necessity,  he  would  do  it  no  more.  They  should  beg 
in  vain.  He  was  an  artist  in  the  true  sense  of  the  word — a 
great  painter,  ranking  with  Whistler,  Sargent,  Velasquez  and 
Turner.  Let  the  magazines  with  their  little  ephemeral  circulation 
go  their  way.  He  was  for  the  whole  world. 

He  stood  at  the  window  of  his  studio  one  day  while  the 
exhibition  was  still  in  progress,  Angela  by  his  side,  thinking 
of  all  the  fine  things  that  had  been  said.  No  picture  had  been 
sold,  but  M.  Charles  had  told  him  that  some  might  be  taken 
before  it  was  all  over. 

"I  think  if  I  make  any  money  out  of  this,"  he  said  to  Angela, 
"we  will  go  to  Paris  this  summer.  I  have  always  wanted  to  see 
Paris.  In  the  fall  we'll  come  back  and  take  a  studio  up  town. 
They  are  building  some  dandy  ones  up  in  Sixty-fifth  Street." 
He  was  thinking  of  the  artists  who  could  pay  three  and  four 
thousand  dollars  a  year  for  a  studio.  He  was  thinking  of  men 
who  made  four,  five,  six  and  even  eight  hundred  dollars  out 
of  every  picture  they  painted.  If  he  could  do  that!  Or  if  he 
could  get  a  contract  for  a  mural  decoration  for  next  winter. 
He  had  very  little  money  laid  by.  He  had  spent  most  of  his  time 
this  winter  working  with  these  pictures. 

"Oh,  Eugene,"  exclaimed  Angela,  "it  seems  so  wonderful.  I 
can  hardly  believe  it.  You  a  really,  truly,  great  artist !  And  us 


THE    "GENIUS"  239 

going  to  Paris!    Oh,  isn't  that  beautiful.    It  seems  like  a  dream. 
I  think  and  think,  but  it's  hard  to  believe  that  I  am  here  some- 
times, and  that  your  pictures  are  up  at  Kellner's  and  oh! — 
she  clung  to  him  in  an  ecstasy  of  delight. 

Out  in  the  park  the  leaves  were  just  budding.  It  looked  as 
though  the  whole  square  were  hung  with  a  transparent  green 
net,  spangled,  as  was  the  net  in  his  room,  with  tiny  green 
leaves.  Songsters  were  idling  in  the  sun.  Sparrows  were  flying 
noisily  about  in  small  clouds.  Pigeons  were  picking  lazily 
between  the  car  tracks  of  the  street  below. 

"I  might  get  a  group  of  pictures  illustrative  of  Paris.  You 
can't  tell  what  we'll  find.  Charles  says  he  will  have  another 
exhibition  for  me  next  spring,  if  I'll  get  the  material  ready." 
He  pushed  his  arms  above  his  head  and  yawned  deliciously. 

He  wondered  what  Miss  Finch  thought  now.  He  wondered 
where  Christina  Channing  was.  There  was  never  a  word  in  the 
papers  yet  as  to  what  had  become  of  her.  He  knew  what 
Norma  Whitmore  thought.  She  was  apparently  as  happy 
as  though  the  exhibition  had  been  her  own. 

"Well,  I  must  go  and  get  your  lunch,  Honeybun!"  exclaimed 
Angela.  "I  have  to  go  to  Mr.  Gioletti,  the  grocer,  and  to  Mr. 
Ruggiere,  the  vegetable  man."  She  laughed,  for  the  Italian 
names  amused  her. 

Eugene  went  back  to  his  easel.  He  was  thinking  of  Christina 
— where  was  she?  At  that  moment,  if  he  had  known,  she  was 
looking  at  his  pictures,  only  newly  returned  from  Europe.  She 
had  seen  a  notice  in  the  Evening  Post. 

"Such  work!"  Christina  thought,  "such  force!  Oh,  what  a 
delightful  artist.  And  he  was  with  me." 

Her  mind  went  back  to  Florizel  and  the  amphitheatre  among 
the  trees.  "He  called  me  'Diana  of  the  Mountains/  "  she 
thought,  "his  'hamadryad,'  his  'huntress  of  the  morn.'  "  She 
knew  he  was  married.  An  acquaintance  of  hers  had  written  in 
December.  The  past  was  past  with  her — she  wanted  no  more 
of  it.  But  it  was  beautiful  to  think  upon — a  delicious  memory. 

"What  a  queer  girl  I  am,"  she  thought. 

Still  she  wished  she  could  see  him  again — not  face  to  face, 
but  somewhere  where  he  could  not  see  her.  She  wondered  if  he 
was  changing — if  he  would  ever  change.  He  was  so  beautiful 
then — to  her. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

PARIS  now  loomed  bright  in  Eugene's  imagination,  the  pros- 
pect mingling  with  a  thousand  other  delightful  thoughts. 
Now  that  he  had  attained  to  the  dignity  of  a  public  exhibition, 
which  had  been  notably  commented  upon  by  the  newspapers  and 
art  journals  and  had  been  so  generally  attended  by  the  elect, 
artists,  critics,  writers  generally,  seemed  to  know  of  him.  There 
were  many  who  were  anxious  to  meet  and  greet  him,  to  speak  ap- 
provingly of  his  work.  It  was  generally  understood,  apparently, 
that  he  was  a  great  artist,  not  exactly  arrived  to  the  fullness 
of  his  stature  as  yet,  being  so  new,  but  on  his  way.  Among 
those  who  knew  him  he  was,  by  this  one  exhibition,  lifted  almost 
in  a  day  to  a  lonely  height,  far  above  the  puny  efforts  of  such 
men  as  Smite  and  MacHugh,  McConnell  and  Deesa,  the  whole 
world  of  small  artists  whose  canvases  packed  the  semi-annual 
exhibition  of  the  National  Academy  of  Design  and  the  Water 
color  society,  and  with  whom  in  a  way,  he  had  been  associated. 
He  was  a  great  artist  now — recognized  as  such  by  the  eminent 
critics  who  knew;  and  as  such,  from  now  on,  would  be  expected 
to  do  the  work  of  a  great  artist.  One  phrase  in  the  criticisms  of 
Luke  Severas  in  the  Evening  Sun  as  it  appeared  during  the 
run  of  his  exhibition  remained  in  his  memory  clearly — "If  he 
perseveres,  if  his  art  does  not  fail  him.''  Why  should  his  art 
fail  him? — he  asked  himself.  He  was  immensely  pleased  to 
hear  from  M.  Charles  at  the  close  of  the  exhibition  that  three 
of  his  pictures  had  been  sold — one  for  three  hundred  dollars  to 
Henry  McKenna,  a  banker;  another,  the  East  Side  street  scene 
which  M.  Charles  so  greatly  admired,  to  Isaac  Wertheim,  for 
five  hundred  dollars ;  a  third,  the  one  of  the  three  engines  and  the 
railroad  yard,  to  Robert  C.  Winchon,  a  railroad  man,  first  vice- 
president  of  one  of  the  great  railroads  entering  New  York,  also 
for  five  hundred  dollars.  Eugene  had  never  heard  of  either 
Mr.  McKenna  or  Mr.  Winchon,  but  he  was  assured  that  they 
were  men  of  wealth  and  refinement.  At  Angela's  suggestion  he 
asked  M.  Charles  if  he  would  not  accept  one  of  his  pictures  as 
a  slight  testimony  of  his  appreciation  for  all  he  had  done  for 
him.  Eugene  would  not  have  thought  to  do  this,  he  was  so  care- 
less and  unpractical.  But  Angela  thought  of  it,  and  saw  that 
he  did  it.  M.  Charles  was  greatly  pleased,  and  took  the  pic- 
ture of  Greeley  Square,  which  he  considered  a  masterpiece  of 

240 


THE    "GENIUS"  241 

color  interpretation.  This  somehow  sealed  the  friendship  be- 
tween these  two,  and  M.  Charles  was  anxious  to  see  Eugene's 
interests  properly  forwarded.  He  asked  him  to  leave  three  of  his 
scenes  on  sale  for  a  time  and  he  would  see  what  he  could  do. 
Meanwhile,  Eugene,  with  thirteen  hundred  added  to  the  thou-  * 
sand  and  some  odd  dollars  he  had  left  in  his  bank  from  previous 
earnings,  was  convinced  that  his  career  was  made,  and  decided, 
as  he  had  planned  to  go  to  Paris,  for  the  summer  at  least. 

This  trip,  so  exceptional  to  him,  so  epoch-making,  was  easily 
arranged.  All  the  time  he  had  been  in  New  York  he  had  heard 
more  in  his  circle  of  Paris  than  of  any  other  city.  Its  streets, 
its  quarters,  its  museums,  its  theatres  and  opera  were  already 
almost  a  commonplace  to  him.  The  cost  of  living,  the  ideal 
methods  of  living,  the  way  to  travel,  what  to  see — how  often 
he  had  sat  and  listened  to  descriptions  of  these  things.  Now 
he  was  going.  Angela  took  the  initiative  in  arranging  all  the 
practical  details — such  as  looking  up  the  steamship  routes,  decid- 
ing on  the  size  of  trunks  required,  what  to  take,  buying  the 
tickets,  looking  up  the  rates  of  the  different  hotels  and  pensions 
at  which  they  might  possibly  stay.  She  was  so  dazed  by  the 
glory  that  had  burst  upon  her  husband's  life  that  she  scarcely 
knew  what  to  do  or  what  to  make  of  it. 

"That  Mr.  Bierdat,"  she  said  to  Eugene,  referring  to  one  of 
the  assistant  steam-ship  agents  with  whom  she  had  taken  coun- 
sel, "tells  me  that  if  we  are  just  going  for  the  summer  it's  foolish 
to  take  anything  but  absolute  necessaries.  He  says  we  can  buy 
so  many  nice  little  things  to  wear  over  there  if  we  need  them, 
and  then  I  can  bring  them  back  duty  free  in  the  fall." 

Eugene  approved  of  this.  He  thought  Angela  would  like 
to  see  the  shops.  They  finally  decided  to  go  via  London,  re- 
turning direct  from  Havre,  and  on  the  tenth  of  May  they  de- 
parted, arriving  in  London  a  week  later  and  in  Paris  on  the  first 
of  June.  Eugene  was  greatly  impressed  with  London.  He 
had  arrived  in  time  to  miss  the  British  damp  and  cold  and 
to  see  London  through  a  golden  haze  which  was  entrancing. 
Angela  objected  to  the  shops,  which  she  described  as  "punk," 
and  to  the  condition  of  the  lower  classes,  who  were  so  poor  and 
wretchedly  dressed.  She  and  Eugene  discussed  the  interesting 
fact  that  all  Englishmen  looked  exactly  alike,  dressed,  walked, 
and  wore  their  hats  and  carried  their  canes  exactly  alike.  Eu- 
gene was  impressed  with  the  apparent  "go"  of  the  men — their 
smartness  and  dapperness.  The  women  he  objected  to  in  the 
main  as  being  dowdy  and  homely  and  awkward. 

But  when  he  reached  Paris,  what  a  difference!     In  London, 


242  THE    "GENIUS" 

because  of  the  lack  of  sufficient  means  (he  did  not  feel  that  as 
yet  he  had  sufficient  to  permit  him  to  indulge  in  the  more  expen- 
sive comforts  and  pleasures  of  the  city)  and  for  the  want  of 
someone  to  provide  him  with  proper  social  introductions,  he  was 
compelled  to  content  himself  with  that  superficial,  exterior  aspect 
of  things  which  only  the  casual  traveler  sees — the  winding 
streets,  the  crush  of  traffic,  London  Tower,  Windsor  Castle, 
the  Inns  of  court,  the  Strand,  Piccadilly,  St.  Paul's  and,  of 
course,  the  National  Gallery  and  the  British  Museum.  South 
Kensington  and  all  those  various  endowed  palaces  where  ob- 
jects of  art  are  displayed  pleased  him  greatly.  In  the  main  he 
was  struck  with  the  conservatism  of  London,  its  atmosphere 
of  Empire,  its  soldiery  and  the  like,  though  he  considered  it 
drab,  dull,  less  strident  than  New  York,  and  really  less  pic- 
turesque. When  he  came  to  Paris,  however,  all  this  was 
changed.  Paris  is  of  itself  a  holiday  city — one  whose  dress  is 
always  gay,  inviting,  fresh,  like  one  wrho  sets  forth  to  spend  a 
day  in  the  country.  As  Eugene  stepped  onto  the  dock  at  Calais 
and  later  as  he  journeyed  across  and  into  the  city,  he  could  feel 
the  vast  difference  between  France  and  England.  The  one  coun- 
try seemed  young,  hopeful,  American,  even  foolishly  gay,  the 
other  serious,  speculative,  dour. 

Eugene  had  taken  a  number  of  letters  from  M.  Charles,  Hud- 
son Dula,  Louis  Deesa,  Leonard  Baker  and  others,  who,  on 
hearing  that  he  was  going,  had  volunteered  to  send  him  to 
friends  in  Paris  who  might  help  him.  The  principal  thing,  if 
he  did  not  wish  to  maintain  a  studio  of  his  own,  and  did 
wish  to  learn,  was  to  live  with  some  pleasant  French  family 
where  he  could  hear  French  and  pick  it  up  quickly.  If  he 
did  not  wish  to  do  this,  the  next  best  thing  was  to  settle  in 
the  Montmartre  district  in  some  section  or  court  where  he 
could  obtain  a  nice  studio,  and  where  there  were  a  number  of 
American  or  English  students.  Some  of  the  Americans  to  whom 
he  had  letters  were  already  domiciled  here.  With  a  small 
calling  list  of  friends  who  spoke  English  he  would  do  very 
well. 

"You  will  be  surprised,  Witla,"  said  Deesa  to  him  one  day, 
"how  much  English  you  can  get  understood  by  making  in- 
telligent signs." 

Eugene  had  laughed  at  Deesa's  descriptions  of  his  own  diffi- 
culties and  successes,  but  he  found  that  Deesa  was  right.  Signs 
went  very  far  and  they  were,  as  a  rule,  thoroughly  intelligible. 

The  studio  which  he  and  Angela  eventually  took  after  a  few 
days  spent  at  an  hotel,  was  a  comfortable  one  on  the  third 


THE     '  GENIUS'  243 

floor  of  a  house  which  Eugene  found  ready  to  his  hand,  recom- 
mended by  M.  Arkquin,  of  the  Paris  branch  of  Kellner  and 
Son.  Another  artist,  Finley  Wood,  whom  afterwards  Eugene 
recalled  as  having  been  mentioned  to  him  by  Ruby  Kenny,  in 
Chicago,  was  leaving  Paris  for  the  summer.  Because  of  M. 
Charles'  impressive  letter,  M.  Arkquin  was  most  anxious  that 
Eugene  should  be  comfortably  installed  and  suggested  that  he 
take  this,  the  charge  being  anything  he  cared  to  pay — forty 
francs  the  month.  Eugene  looked  at  it  and  was  delighted.  It 
was  in  the  back  of  the  house,  looking  out  on  a  little  garden,  and 
because  of  a  westward  slope  of  the  ground  from  this  direction 
and  an  accidental  breach  in  the  building  line,  commanded  a  wide 
sweep  of  the  city  of  Paris,  the  twin  towers  of  Notre  Dame, 
the  sheer  rise  of  the  Eiffel  tower.  It  was  fascinating  to  see  the 
lights  of  the  city  blinking  of  an  evening.  Eugene  would  in- 
variably draw  his  chair  close  to  his  favorite  window  when  he 
came  in,  while  Angela  made  lemonade  or  iced  tea  or  practised 
her  culinary  art  on  a  chafing  dish.  In  presenting  to  him  an 
almost  standard  American  menu  she  exhibited  the  executive 
ability  and  natural  industry  which  was  her  chief  characteristic. 
She  would  go  to  the  neighboring  groceries,  rotisseries,  patisseries, 
green  vegetable  stands,  and  get  the  few  things  she  needed  in 
the  smallest  quantities,  always  selecting  the  best  and  preparing 
them  with  the  greatest  care.  She  was  an  excellent  cook  and 
loved  to  set  a  dainty  and  shining  table.  She  saw  no  need  of 
company,  for  she  was  perfectly  happy  alone  with  Eugene  and 
felt  that  he  must  be  with  her.  She  had  no  desire  to  go  any- 
where by  herself — only  with  him ;  and  she  would  hang  on  every 
thought  and  motion  waiting  for  him  to  say  what  his  pleasure 
would  be. 

The  wonder  of  Paris  to  Eugene  was  its  freshness  and  the 
richness  of  its  art  spirit  as  expressed  on  every  hand.  He  was 
never  weary  of  looking  at  the  undersized  French  soldiery  with 
their  wide  red  trousers,  blue  coats  and  red  caps,  or  the  police 
with  their  capes  and  swords  and  the  cab  drivers  with  their 
air  of  leisurely  superiority.  The  Seine,  brisk  with  boats  at 
this  season  of  the  year,  the  garden  of  the  Tuileries,  with  its 
white  marble  nudes  and  formal  paths  and  stone  benches,  the  Bois, 
the  Champ  de  Mars,  the  Trocadero  Museum,  the  Louvre — all 
the  wonder  streets  and  museums  held  him  as  in  a  dream. 

"Gee,"  he  exclaimed  to  Angela  one  afternoon  as  he  followed 
the  banks  of  the  Seine  toward  Issy,  "this  is  certainly  the  home 
of  the  blessed  for  all  good  artists.  Smell  that  perfume.  (It  was 
from  a  perfume  factory  in  the  distance.)  See  that  barge!" 


244  THE    "GENIUS" 

He  leaned  on  the  river  wall.    "Ah,"  he  sighed,  "this  is  perfect." 

They  went  back  in  the  dusk  on  the  roof  of  an  open  car.  "When 
I  die,"  he  sighed,  "I  hope  I  come  to  Paris.  It  is  all  the  heaven 
I  want." 

Yet  like  all  perfect  delights,  it  lost  some  of  its  savour  after 
a  time,  though  not  much.  Eugene  felt  that  he  could  live  in 
Paris  if  his  art  would  permit  him — though  he  must  go  back, 
he  knew,  for  the  present  anyhow. 

Angela,  he  noticed  after  a  time,  was  growing  in  confidence,  if 
not  in  mentality.  From  a  certain  dazed  uncertainty  which 
had  characterized  her  the  preceding  fall  when  she  had  first  come 
to  New  York,  heightened  and  increased  for  the  time  being 
by  the  rush  of  art  life  and  strange  personalities  she  had  encount- 
ered there  and  here  she  was  blossoming  into  a  kind  of  as- 
surance born  of  experience.  Finding  that  Eugene's  ideas,  feel- 
ings and  interests  were  of  the  upper  world  of  thought  entirely — 
concerned  with  types,  crowds,  the  aspect  of  buildings,  streets, 
skylines,  the  humors  and  pathetic  aspects  of  living,  she  con- 
cerned herself  solely  with  the  managerial  details.  It  did  not 
take  her  long  to  discover  that  if  anyone  would  relieve  Eugene 
of  all  care  for  himself  he  would  let  him  do  it.  It  was  no 
satisfaction  to  him  to  buy  himself  anything.  He  objected  to 
executive  and  commercial  details.  If  tickets  had  to  be  bought, 
time  tables  consulted,  inquiries  made,  any  labor  of  argument  or 
dispute  engaged  in,  he  was  loath  to  enter  on  it.  "You  get  these, 
will  you,  Angela?"  he  would  plead,  or  "you  see  him  about  that. 
I  can't  now.  Will  you  ?" 

Angela  would  hurry  to  the  task,  whatever  it  was,  anxious 
to  show  that  she  was  of  real  use  and  necessity.  On  the 
busses  of  London  or  Paris,  as  in  New  York,  he  was  sketch- 
ing, sketching,  sketching — cabs,  little  passenger  boats  of  the 
Seine,  characters  in  the  cafes,  parks,  gardens,  music  halls,  any- 
where, anything,  for  he  was  practically  tireless.  All  that  he 
wanted  was  not  to  be  bothered  very  much,  to  be  left  to  his 
own  devices.  Sometimes  Angela  would  pay  all  the  bills  for 
him  for  a  day.  She  carried  his  purse,  took  charge  of  all  the 
express  orders  into  which  their  cash  had  been  transferred,  kept  a 
list  of  all  their  expenditures,  did  the  shopping,  buying,  paying. 
Eugene  was  left  to  see  the  thing  that  he  wanted  to  see,  to  think 
the  things  that  he  wanted  to  think.  During  all  those  early 
days  Angela  made  a  god  of  him  and  he  was  very  willing  to 
cross  his  legs,  Buddha  fashion,  and  act  as  one. 

Only  at  night  when  there  were  no  alien  sights  or  sounds 
to  engage  his  attention,  when  not  even  his  art  could  come  between 


THE    "GENIUS'  245 

them,  and  she  could  draw  him  into  her  arms  and  submerge  his 
restless  spirit  in  the  tides  of  her  love  did  she  feel  his  equal — 
really  worthy  of  him.  These  transports  which  came  with  the 
darkness,  or  with  the  mellow  light  of  the  little  oil  lamp  that 
hung  in  chains  from  the  ceiling  near  their  wide  bed,  or  in  the 
faint  freshness  of  dawn  with  the  birds  cheeping  in  the  one  tree  of 
the  little  garden  below — were  to  her  at  once  utterly  generous 
and  profoundly  selfish.  She  had  eagerly  absorbed  Eugene's 
philosophy  of  self-indulgent  joy  where  it  concerned  themselves — 
all  the  more  readily  as  it  coincided  with  her  own  vague  ideas 
and  her  own  hot  impulses. 

Angela  had  come  to  marriage  through  years  of  self-denial, 
years  of  bitter  longing  for  the  marriage  that  perhaps  would  never 
be,  and  out  of  those  years  she  had  come  to  the  marriage  bed 
with  a  cumulative  and  intense  passion.  Without  any  knowl- 
edge either  of  the  ethics  or  physiology  of  sex,  except  as  pertained 
to  her  state  as  a  virgin,  she  was  vastly  ignorant  of  marriage  it- 
self; the  hearsay  of  girls,  the  equivocal  confessions  of  newly 
married  women,  and  the  advice  of  her  elder  sister  (conveyed  by 
Heaven  only  knows  what  process  of  conversation)  had  left  her 
almost  as  ignorant  as  before,  and  now  she  explored  its  mysteries 
with  abandon,  convinced  that  the  unrestrained  gratification  of 
passion  was  normal  and  excellent — in  addition  to  being,  as  she 
came  to  find,  a  universal  solvent  for  all  differences  of  opinion  or 
temperament  that  threatened  their  peace  of  mind.  Beginning 
with  their  life  in  the  studio  on  Washington  Square,  and  continu- 
ing with  even  greater  fervor  now  in  Paris,  there  was  what  might 
be  described  as  a  prolonged  riot  of  indulgence  between  them, 
bearing  no  relation  to  any  necessity  in  their  natures,  and  cer- 
tainly none  to  the  demands  which  Eugene's  intellectual  and  ar- 
tistic tasks  laid  upon  him.  She  was  to  Eugene  astonishing  and 
delightful;  and  yet  perhaps  not  so  much  delightful  as  astonish- 
ing. Angela  was  in  a  sense  elemental,  but  Eugene  was  not:  he 
was  the  artist,  in  this  as  in  other  things,  rousing  himself  to  a 
pitch  of  appreciation  which  no  strength  so  undermined  by  in- 
tellectual subtleties  could  continuously  sustain.  The  excitement 
of  adventure,  of  intrigue  in  a  sense,  of  discovering  the  secrets 
of  feminine  personality — these  were  really  what  had  constituted 
the  charm,  if  not  the  compelling  urge,  of  his  romances.  To 
conquer  was  beautiful:  but  it  was  in  essence  an  intellectual  en- 
terprise. To  see  his  rash  dreams  come  true  in  the  yielding  of 
the  last  swreetness  possessed  by  the  desired  woman,  had  been  to 
him  imaginatively  as  well  as  physically  an  irresistible  thing. 
But  these  enterprises  were  like  thin  silver  strands  spun  out  across 


246  THE    "GENIUS' 

an  abyss,  whose  beauty  but  not  whose  dangers  were  known  to 
him.  Still,  he  rejoiced  in  this  magnificent  creature-joy  which 
Angela  supplied;  it  was,  so  far  as  it  was  concerned,  what  he 
thought  he  wanted.  And  Angela  interpreted  her  power  to  re- 
spond to  what  seemed  his  inexhaustible  desire  as  not  only  a 
kindness  but  a  duty. 

Eugene  set  up  his  easel  here,  painted  from  nine  to  noon  some 
days,  and  on  others  from  two  to  five  in  the  afternoon.  If  it  were 
dark,  he  would  walk  or  ride  with  Angela  or  visit  the  museums, 
the  galleries  and  the  public  buildings  or  stroll  in  the  factory 
or  railroad  quarters  of  the  city.  Eugene  sympathized  most  with 
sombre  types  and  was  constantly  drawing  something  which  rep- 
resented grim  care.  Aside  from  the  dancers  in  the  music  halls, 
the  toughs,  in  what  later  became  known  as  the  Apache  district, 
the  summer  picnicking  parties  at  Versailles  and  St.  Cloud,  the 
boat  crowds  on  the  Seine,  he  drew  factory  throngs,  watchmen 
and  railroad  crossings,  market  people,  market  in  the  dark,  street 
sweepers,  newspaper  vendors,  flower  merchants,  always  with 
a  memorable  street  scene  in  the  background.  Some  of  the 
most  interesting  bits  of  Paris,  its  towers,  bridges,  river  views, 
fagades,  appeared  in  backgrounds  to  the  grim  or  picturesque  or 
pathetic  character  studies.  It  was  his  hope  that  he  could  inter- 
est America  in  these  things — that  his  next  exhibition  would  not 
only  illustrate  his  versatility  and  persistence  of  talent,  but  show 
an  improvement  in  his  art,  a  surer  sense  of  color  values,  a  greater 
analytical  power  in  the  matter  of  character,  a  surer  selective 
taste  in  the  matter  of  composition  and  arrangement.  He  did 
not  realize  that  all  this  might  be  useless — that  he  was,  aside 
from  his  art,  living  a  life  which  might  rob  talent  of  its  finest 
flavor,  discolor  the  aspect  of  the  world  for  himself,  take  scope 
from  imagination  and  hamper  effort  with  nervous  irritation, 
and  make  accomplishment  impossible.  He  had  no  knowledge  of 
the  effect  of  one's  sexual  life  upon  one's  work,  nor  what  such  a 
life  when  badly  arranged  can  do  to  a  perfect  art — how  it  can 
distort  the  sense  of  color,  weaken  that  balanced  judgment  of 
character  which  is  so  essential  to  a  normal  interpretation  of  life, 
make  all  striving  hopeless,  take  from  art  its  most  joyous  concep- 
tion, make  life  itself  seem  unimportant  and  death  a  relief. 


CHAPTER   IX 

THE  summer  passed,  and  with  it  the  freshness  and  novelty 
of  Paris,  though  Eugene  never  really  wearied  of  it.  The 
peculiarities  of  a  different  national  life,  the  variations  between 
this  and  his  own  country  in  national  ideals,  an  obviously  much 
more  complaisant  and  human  attitude  toward  morals,  a  mat- 
ter-of-fact acceptance  of  the  ills,  weaknesses  and  class  differences, 
to  say  nothing  of  the  general  physical  appearance,  the  dress, 
habitations  and  amusements  of  the  people,  astonished  as  much 
as  they  entertained  him.  He  was  never  weary  of  studying  the 
differences  between  American  and  European  architecture,  not- 
ing the  pacific  manner  in  which  the  Frenchman  appeared  to 
take  life,  listening  to  Angela's  unwearied  comments  on  the  clean- 
liness, economy,  thoroughness  with  which  the  French  women 
kept  house,  rejoicing  in  the  absence  of  the  American  leaning  to 
incessant  activity.  Angela  was  struck  by  the  very  moderate 
prices  for  laundry,  the  skill  with  which  their  concierge — who 
governed  this  quarter  and  who  knew  sufficient  English  to  talk 
to  her — did  her  marketing,  cooking,  sewing  and  entertaining. 
The  richness  of  supply  and  aimless  waste  of  Americans  was 
alike  unknown.  Because  she  was  naturally  of  a  domestic  turn 
Angela  became  very  intimate  with  Madame  Bourgoche  and 
learned  of  her  a  hundred  and  one  little  tricks  of  domestic  econ- 
omy and  arrangement. 

"You're  a  peculiar  girl,  Angela,"  Eugene  once  said  to  her.  "I 
believe  you  would  rather  sit  down  stairs  and  talk  to  that  French- 
woman than  meet  the  most  interesting  literary  or  artistic  per- 
sonage that  ever  was.  What  do  you  find  that's  so  interesting  to 
talk  about?" 

"Oh,  nothing  much,"  replied  Angela,  who  was  not  unconscious 
of  the  implied  hint  of  her  artistic  deficiencies.  "She's  such  a 
smart  woman.  She's  so  practical.  She  knows  more  in  a  min- 
ute about  saving  and  buying  and  making  a  little  go  a  long  way 
than  any  American  woman  I  ever  saw.  I'm  not  interested  in 
her  any  more  than  I  am  in  anyone  else.  All  the  artistic  people 
do,  that  I  can  see,  is  to  run  around  and  pretend  that  they're  a 
whole  lot  when  they're  not." 

Eugene  saw  that  he  had  made  an  irritating  reference,  not 
wholly  intended  in  the  way  it  was  being  taken. 

"I'm  not  saying  she  isn't  able,"  he  went  on.  "One  talent  is 

247 


248  THE    "GENIUS" 

as  good  as  another,  I  suppose.  She  certainly  looks  clever  enough 
tome.  Where  is  her  husband  ?" 

"He  was  killed  in  the  army,"  returned  Angela  dolefully. 

"Well  I  suppose  you'll  learn  enough  from  her  to  run  a  hotel 
when  you  get  back  to  New  York.  You  don't  know  enough  about 
housekeeping  now,  do  you?" 

Eugene  smiled  with  his  implied  compliment.  He  was  anxious 
to  get  Angela's  mind  off  the  art  question.  He  hoped  she  would 
feel  or  see  that  he  meant  nothing,  but  she  was  not  so  easily 
pacified. 

"You  don't  think  I'm  so  bad,  Eugene,  do  you?"  she  asked 
after  a  moment.  "You  don't  think  it  makes  so  much  difference 
whether  I  talk  to  Madame  Bourgoche?  She  isn't  so  dull.  She's 
awfully  smart.  You  just  haven't  talked  to  her.  She  says  she 
can  tell  by  looking  at  you  that  you're  a  great  artist.  You're 
different.  You  remind  her  of  a  Mr.  Degas  that  once  lived 
here.  Was  he  a  great  artist?" 

"Was  he!"  said  Eugene.  "Well  I  guess  yes.  Did  he  have 
this  studio?" 

"Oh,  a  long  time  ago — fifteen  years  ago." 

Eugene  smiled  beatifically.  This  was  a  great  compliment. 
He  could  not  help  liking  Madame  Bourgoche  for  it.  She  was 
bright,  no  doubt  of  that,  or  she  would  not  be  able  to  make  such 
a  comparison.  Angela  drew  from  him,  as  before,  that  her  do- 
mesticity and  housekeeping  skill  was  as  important  as  anything 
else  in  the  world,  and  having  done  this  was  satisfied  and  cheer- 
ful once  more.  Eugene  thought  how  little  art  or  conditions  or 
climate  or  country  altered  the  fundamental  characteristics  of 
human  nature.  Here  he  was  in  Paris,  comparatively  well  sup- 
plied with  money,  famous,  or  in  process  of  becoming  so,  and 
quarreling  with  Angela  over  little  domestic  idiosyncrasies,  just 
as  in  Washington  Square. 

By  late  September  Eugene  had  most  of  his  Paris  sketches  so 
well  laid  in  that  he  could  finish  them  anywhere.  Some 
fifteen  were  as  complete  as  they  could  be  made.  A  number  of 
others  were  nearly  so.  He  decided  that  he  had  had  a  profitable 
summer.  He  had  worked  hard  and  here  was  the  work  to  show 
for  it — twenty-six  canvases  which  were  as  good,  in  his  judg- 
ment, as  those  he  had  painted  in  New  York.  They  had  not 
taken  so  long,  but  he  was  surer  of  himself — surer  of  his  method. 
He  parted  reluctantly  with  all  the  lovely  things  he  had  seen, 
believing  that  this  collection  of  Parisian  views  would  be  as  im- 
pressive to  Americans  as  had  been  his  New  York  views.  M. 
Arkquin  for  one,  and  many  others,  including  the  friends  of  Deesa 


THE    "GENIUS"  249 

and  Dula  were  delighted  with  them.  The  former  expressed  the 
belief  that  some  of  them  might  be  sold  in  France. 

Eugene  returned  to  America  with  Angela,  and  learning  that 
he  might  stay  in  the  old  studio  until  December  first,  settled  down 
to  finish  the  work  for  his  exhibition  there. 

The  first  suggestion  that  Eugene  had  that  anything  was 
wrong  with  him,  aside  from  a  growing  apprehensiveness  as  to 
what  the  American  people  would  think  of  his  French  work,  was 
in  the  fall,  when  he  began  to  imagine — or  perhaps  it  was 
really  true — that  coffee  did  not  agree  with  him.  He  had  for  sev- 
eral years  now  been  free  of  his  old-time  complaint, — stomach 
trouble;  but  gradually  it  was  beginning  to  reappear  and  he 
began  to  complain  to  Angela  that  he  was  feeling  an  irritation 
after  his  meals,  that  coffee  came  up  in  his  throat.  "I  think  I'll 
have  to  try  tea  or  something  else  if  this  doesn't  stop,"  he  ob- 
served. She  suggested  chocolate  and  he  changed  to  that,  but 
this  merely  resulted  in  shifting  the  ill  to  another  quarter.  He 
now  began  to  quarrel  with  his  work — not  being  able  to  get  a 
certain  effect,  and  having  sometimes  altered  and  re-altered  and 
re-re-altered  a  canvas  until  it  bore  little  resemblance  to  the 
original  arrangement,  he  would  grow  terribly  discouraged;  or 
believe  that  he  had  attained  perfection  at  last,  only  to  change  his 
mind  the  following  morning. 

"Now,'*  he  would  say,  "I  think  I  have  that  thing  right  at 
last,  thank  heaven!" 

Angela  would  heave  a  sigh  of  relief,  for  she  could  feel  in- 
stantly any  distress  or  inability  that  he  felt,  but  her  joy  was  of 
short  duration.  In  a  few  hours  she  would  find  him  working  at 
the  same  canvas  changing  something.  He  grew  thinner  and 
paler  at  this  time  and  his  apprehensions  as  to  his  future  rapidly 
became  morbid. 

"By  George!  Angela/1  he  said  to  her  one  day,  "it  would  be  a 
bad  thing  for  me  if  I  were  to  become  sick  now.  It's  just  the  time 
that  I  don't  want  to.  I  want  to  finish  this  exhibition  up  right 
and  then  go  to  London.  If  I  could  do  London  and  Chicago  as 
I  did  New  York  I  would  be  just  about  made,  but  if  I'm  going  to 
get  sick — " 

"Oh,  you're  not  going  to  get  sick,  Eugene,"  replied  Angela, 
"you  just  think  you  are.  You  want  to  remember  that  you've 
worked  very  hard  this  summer.  And  think  how  hard  you 
worked  last  winter !  You  need  a  good  rest,  that's  what  you  need. 
Why  don't  you  stop  after  you  get  this  exhibition  ready  and 
rest  awhile?  You  have  enough  to  live  on  for  a  little  bit.  M. 
Charles  will  probably  sell  a  few  more  of  those  pictures,  or 


250  THE    "GENIUS'1 

some  of  those  will  sell  and  then  you  can  wait.  Don't  try  to 
go  to  London  in  the  spring.  Go  on  a  walking  tour  or  go  down 
South  or  just  rest  awhile,  anywhere, — that's  what  you  need." 

Eugene  realized  vaguely  that  it  wasn't  rest  that  he  needed 
so  much  as  peace  of  mind.  He  was  not  tired.  He  was  merely 
nervously  excited  and  apprehensive.  He  began  to  sleep  badly, 
to  have  terrifying  dreams,  to  feel  that  his  heart  was  failing 
him.  At  two  o'clock  in  the  morning,  the  hour  when  for  some 
reason  human  vitality  appears  to  undergo  a  peculiar  disturbance, 
he  would  wake  with  a  sense  of  sinking  physically.  His  pulse 
would  appear  to  be  very  low,  and  he  wTould  feel  his  wrists  ner- 
vously. Not  infrequently  he  would  break  out  in  a  cold  perspira- 
tion and  would  get  up  and  walk  about  to  restore  himself.  An- 
gela would  rise  and  walk  with  him.  One  day  at  his  easel  he 
was  seized  with  a  peculiar  nervous  disturbance — a  sudden  glit- 
tering light  before  his  eyes,  a  rumbling  in  his  ears,  and  a  sensa- 
tion which  was  as  if  his  body  were  being  pricked  with  ten  million 
needles.  It  was  as  though  his  whole  nervous  system  had  given 
way  at  every  minute  point  and  division.  For  the  time  being 
he  was  intensely  frightened,  believing  that  he  was  going  crazy, 
but  he  said  nothing.  It  came  to  him  as  a  staggering  truth  that 
the  trouble  writh  him  was  over-indulgence  physically;  that  the 
remedy  was  abstinence,  complete  or  at  least  partial ;  that  he 
was  probably  so  far  weakened  mentally  and  physically  that  it 
would  be  very  difficult  for  him  to  recover;  that  his  ability  to 
paint  might  be  seriously  affected — his  life  blighted. 

He  stood  before  his  canvas  holding  his  brush,  wondering. 
When  the  shock  had  completely  gone  he  laid  the  brush  down  with 
a  trembling  hand.  He  walked  to  the  wTindow,  wiped  his  cold, 
damp  forehead  with  his  hand  and  then  turned  to  get  his  coat 
from  the  closet. 

"Where  are  you  going?"  asked  Angela. 

"For  a  little  walk.  I'll  be  back  soon.  I  don't  feel  just  as 
fresh  as  I  might." 

She  kissed  him  good-bye  at  the  door  and  let  him  go,  but  her 
heart  troubled  her. 

"I'm  afraid  Eugene  is  going  to  get  sick,"  she  thought.  "He 
ought  to  stop  work." 


CHAPTER   X 

IT  was  the  beginning  of  a  period  destined  to  last  five  or  six 
years,  in  which,  to  say  the  least,  Eugene  was  not  himself. 
He  was  not  in  any  sense  out  of  his  mind,  if  power  to  reason 
clearly,  jest  sagely,  argue  and  read  intelligently  are  any  evidences 
of  sanity;  but  privately  his  mind  was  a  maelstrom  of  contradic- 
tory doubts,  feelings  and  emotions.  Always  of  a  philosophic  and 
introspective  turn,  this  peculiar  faculty  of  reasoning  deeply  and 
feeling  emotionally  were  now  turned  upon  himself  and  his  own 
condition  and,  as  in  all  such  cases  where  we  peer  too  closely  into 
the  subtleties  of  creation,  confusion  was  the  result.  Previously 
he  had  been  well  satisfied  that  the  world  knew  nothing.  Neither 
in  religion,  philosophy  nor  science  was  there  any  answer  to  the 
riddle  of  existence.  Above  and  below  the  little  scintillating 
plane  of  man's  thought  was — what?  Beyond  the  opic  strength 
of  the  greatest  telescope, — far  out  upon  the  dim  horizon  of 
space — were  clouds  of  stars.  What  were  they  doing  out  there? 
Who  governed  them?  When  were  their  sidereal  motions  cal- 
culated? He  figured  life  as  a  grim  dark  mystery,  a  sad  semi- 
conscious activity  turning  aimlessly  in  the  dark.  No  one  knew 
anything.  God  knew  nothing — himself  least  of  all.  Malevo- 
lence, life  living  on  death,  plain  violence — these  were  the  chief 
characteristics  of  existence.  If  one  failed  of  strength  in  any 
way,  if  life  were  not  kind  in  its  bestowal  of  gifts,  if  one  were 
not  born  to  fortune's  pampering  care — the  rest  was  misery.  In 
the  days  of  his  strength  and  prosperity  the  spectacle  of  exist- 
ence had  been  sad  enough:  in  the  hours  of  threatened  delay 
and  defeat  it  seemed  terrible.  Why,  if  his  art  failed  him  now, 
what  had  he  ?  Nothing.  A  little  puny  reputation  which  he  could 
not  sustain,  no  money,  a  wife  to  take  care  of,  years  of  possible 
suffering  and  death.  The  abyss  of  death!  When  he  looked 
into  that  after  all  of  life  and  hope,  how  it  shocked  him,  how  it 
hurt!  Here  was  life  and  happiness  and  love  in  health — there 
was  death  and  nothingness — aeons  and  aeons  of  nothingness. 

He  did  not  immediately  give  up  hope — immediately  succumb 
to  the  evidences  of  a  crumbling  reality.  For  months  and  months 
he  fancied  each  day  that  this  was  a  temporary  condition;  that 
drugs  and  doctors  could  heal  him.  There  were  various  remedies 
that  were  advertised  in  the  papers,  blood  purifiers,  nerve  re- 
storers, brain  foods,  which  were  announced  at  once  as  specifics 

251 


252  THE  "GENIUS" 

and  cures,  and  while  he  did  not  think  that  the  ordinary  patent 
medicine  had  anything  of  value  in  it,  he  did  imagine  that  some 
good  could  be  had  from  tonics,  or  the  tonic.  A  physician 
whom  he  consulted  recommended  rest  and  an  excellent  tonic 
which  he  knew  of.  He  asked  whether  he  was  subject  to  any 
wasting  disease.  Eugene  told  him  no.  He  confessed  to  an 
over-indulgence  in  the  sex-relationship,  but  the  doctor  did  not 
believe  that  ordinarily  this  should  bring  about  a  nervous  de- 
cline. Hard  work  must  have  something  to  do  with  it,  over- 
anxiety.  Some  temperaments  such  as  his  were  predisposed  at 
birth  to  nervous  breakdowns;  they  had  to  guard  themselves. 
Eugene  would  have  to  be  very  careful.  He  should  eat  regularly, 
sleep  as  long  as  possible,  observe  regular  hours.  A  system  of  ex- 
ercise might  not  be  a  bad  thing  for  him.  He  could  get  him  a 
pair  of  Indian  clubs  or  dumb-bells  or  an  exerciser  and  bring 
himself  back  to  health  that  way. 

Eugene  told  Angela  that  he  believed  he  would  try  exercising 
and  joined  a  gymnasium.  He  took  a  tonic,  walked  with  her 
a  great  deal,  sought  to  ignore  the  fact  that  he  was  nervously 
depressed.  These  things  were  of  practically  no  value,  for  the 
body  had  apparently  been  drawn  a  great  distance  below  normal 
and  all  the  hell  of  a  subnormal  state  had  to  be  endured  before 
it  could  gradually  come  into  its  own  again. 

In  the  meantime  he  was  continuing  his  passional  relations 
with  Angela,  in  spite  of  a  growing  judgment  that  they  were  in 
some  way  harmful  to  him.  But  it  was  not  easy  to  refrain,  and 
each  failure  to  do  so  made  it  harder.  It  was  a  customary  re- 
mark of  his  that  "he  must  quit  this,'*  but  it  was  like  the  self- 
apologetic  assurance  of  the  drunkard  that  he  must  reform. 

Now  that  he  had  stepped  out  into  the  limelight  of  public 
observation — now  that  artists  and  critics  and  writers  some- 
what knew  of  him,  and  in  their  occasional  way  were  wondering 
what  he  was  doing,  it  was  necessary  that  he  should  bestir  him- 
self to  especial  effort  in  order  to  satisfy  the  public  as  to  the 
enduring  quality  of  his  art.  He  was  glad,  once  he  realized  that 
he  was  in  for  a  siege  of  bad  weather,  that  his  Paris  drawings 
had  been  so  nearly  completed  before  the  break  came.  By  the 
day  he  suffered  the  peculiar  nervousness  which  seemed  to  mark 
the  opening  of  his  real  decline,  he  had  completed  twenty-two 
paintings,  which  Angela  begged  him  not  to  touch;  and  by  sheer 
strength  of  will,  though  he  misdoubted  gravely,  he  managed  to 
complete  five  more.  All  of  these  M.  Charles  came  to  see  on 
occasion,  and  he  approved  of  them  highly.  He  was  not  so  sure 
that  they  would  have  the  appeal  of  the  American  pictures,  for 


THE    "GENIUS'  253 

after  all  the  city  of  Paris  had  been  pretty  well  done  over  and 
over  in  illustration  and  genre  work.  It  was  not  so  new  as 
New  York ;  the  things  Eugene  chose  were  not  as  unconventional. 
Still,  he  could  say  truly  they  were  exceptional.  They  might  try 
an  exhibition  of  them  later  in  Paris  if  they  did  not  take  here. 
He  was  very  sorry  to  see  that  Eugene  was  in  poor  health  and 
urged  him  to  take  care  of  himself. 

It  seemed  as  if  some  malign  planetary  influence  were  affecting 
him.  Eugene  knew  of  astrology  and  palmistry  and  one  day, 
in  a  spirit  of  curiosity  and  vague  apprehensiveness,  consulted  a 
practitioner  of  the  former,  receiving  for  his  dollar  the  statement 
that  he  was  destined  to  great  fame  in  either  art  or  literature  but 
that  he  was  entering  a  period  of  stress  which  would  endure  for 
a  number  of  years.  Eugene's  spirits  sank  perceptibly.  The 
musty  old  gentleman  who  essayed  his  books  of  astrological  lore 
shook  his  head.  He  had  a  rather  noble  growth  of  white  hair 
and  a  white  beard,  but  his  coffee-stained  vest  was  covered  with 
tobacco  ash  and  his  collar  and  cuffs  were  dirty. 

"It  looks  pretty  bad  between  your  twenty-eighth  and  your 
thirty-second  years,  but  after  that  there  is  a  notable  period  of 
prosperity.  Somewhere  around  your  thirty-eighth  or  thirty- 
ninth  year  there  is  some  more  trouble — a  little — but  you  will 
come  out  of  that — that  is,  it  looks  as  though  you  would.  Your 
stars  show  you  to  be  of  a  nervous,  imaginative  character,  inclined 
to  worry;  and  I  see  that  your  kidneys  are  weak.  You  ought 
never  to  take  much  medicine.  Your  sign  is  inclined  to  that  but 
it  is  without  benefit  to  you.  You  will  be  married  twice,  but  I 
don't  see  any  children." 

He  rambled  on  dolefully  and  Eugene  left  in  great  gloom. 
So  it  was  written  in  the  stars  that  he  was  to  suffer  a  period  of 
decline  and  there  was  to  be  more  trouble  for  him  in  the  future. 
But  he  did  see  a  period  of  great  success  for  him  between  his 
thirty-second  and  his  thirty-eighth  years.  That  was  some  com- 
fort. Who  was  the  second  wToman  he  was  to  marry?  Was 
Angela  going  to  die  ?  He  walked  the  streets  this  early  December 
afternoon,  thinking,  thinking. 

The  Blue  family  had  heard  a  great  deal  of  Eugene's  success 
since  Angela  had  come  to  New  York.  There  had  never  been  a 
week  but  at  least  one  letter,  and  sometimes  two,  had  gone  the 
rounds  of  the  various  members  of  the  family.  It  was  written 
to  Marietta  primarily,  but  Mrs.  Blue,  Jotham,  the  boys  and 
the  several  sisters  all  received  it  by  turns.  Thus  the  whole  regi- 
ment of  Blue  connections  knew  exactly  how  it  was  with  Angela 
and  even  better  than  it  was ;  for  although  things  had  looked  pros- 


254  THE    "GENIUS" 

perous  enough,  Angela  had  not  stayed  within  the  limits  of  bare 
fact  in  describing  her  husband's  success.  She  added  atmosphere, 
not  .fictitious,  but  the  seeming  glory  which  dwelt  in  her  mind, 
until  the  various  connections  of  the  Blue  family,  Marietta  in 
particular,  were  convinced  that  there  was  nothing  but  dignity 
and  bliss  in  store  for  the  wife  of  so  talented  a  man.  The  studio 
life  which  Angela  had  seen,  here  and  in  Paris,  the  picturesque 
descriptions  which  came  home  from  London  and  Paris,  the 
personalities  of  M.  Charles,  M.  Arkquin,  Isaac  Wertheim, 
Henry  L.  Tomlins,  Luke  Severas — all  the  celebrities  whom  they 
met,  both  in  New  York  and  abroad,  had  been  described  at 
length.  There  was  not  a  dinner,  a  luncheon,  a  reception,  a  tea 
party,  which  was  not  pictured  in  all  its  native  colors  and  more. 
Eugene  had  become  somewhat  of  a  demi-god  to  his  Western  con- 
nections. The  quality  of  his  art  was  never  questioned.  It  was 
only  a  little  time  now  before  he  would  be  rich  or  at  least  wTell- 
to-do. 

All  the  relatives  hoped  that  he  would  bring  Angela  home 
some  day  on  a  visit.  To  think  that  she  should  have  married 
such  a  distinguished  man! 

In  the  Witla  family  it  was  quite  the  same.  Eugene  had  not 
been  home  to  see  his  parents  since  his  last  visit  to  Blackwood, 
but  they  had  not  been  without  news.  For  one  thing,  Eugene  had 
been  neglectful,  and  somewhat  because  of  this  Angela  had  taken 
it  upon  herself  to  open  up  a  correspondence  with  his  mother. 
She  wrote  that  of  course  she  didn't  know  her  but  that  she  was 
terribly  fond  of  Eugene,  that  she  hoped  to  make  him  a  good 
wife  and  that  she  hoped  to  make  her  a  satisfactory  daughter- 
in-law.  Eugene  was  so  dilatory  about  writing.  She  would  write 
for  him  now  and  his  mother  should  hear  every  wreek.  She  asked 
if  she  and  her  husband  couldn't  manage  to  come  and  see  them 
sometime.  She  would  be  so  glad  and  it  would  do  Eugene  so 
much  good.  She  asked  if  she  couldn't  have  Myrtle's  address — 
they  had  moved  from  Ottumwa — and  if  Sylvia  wouldn't  write 
occasionally.  She  sent  a  picture  of  herself  and  Eugene,  a  sketch 
of  the  studio  which  Eugene  had  made  one  day,  a  sketch  of  her- 
self looking  pensively  out  of  the  window  into  Washington 
Square.  Pictures  from  his  first  show  published  in  the  news- 
papers, accounts  of  his  work,  criticisms, — all  reached  the  mem- 
bers of  both  families  impartially  and  they  were  kept  well  aware 
of  how  things  were  going. 

During  the  time  that  Eugene  was  feeling  so  badly  and  be- 
cause, if  he  were  going  to  lose  his  health,  it  might  be  necessary 
to  economize  greatly,  it  occurred  to  Angela  that  it  might  be 


THE    "GENIUS'  255 

advisable  for  them  to  go  home  for  a  visit.  While  her  family 
were  not  rich,  they  had  sufficient  means  to  live  on.  Eugene's 
mother  also  was  constantly  writing,  wanting  to  know  why  they 
didn't  come  out  there  for  a  while.  She  could  not  see  why  Eugene 
could  not  paint  his  pictures  as  well  in  Alexandria  as  in  New 
York  or  Paris.  Eugene  listened  to  this  willingly,  for  it  occurred 
to  him  that  instead  of  going  to  London  he  might  do  Chicago 
next,  and  he  and  Angela  could  stay  awhile  at  Blackwood  and 
another  while  at  his  own  home.  They  would  be  welcome  guests. 

The  condition  of  his  finances  at  this  time  was  not  exactly  bad, 
but  it  was  not  very  good.  Of  the  thirteen  hundred  dollars  he 
had  received  for  the  first  three  pictures  sold,  eleven  hundred  had 
been  used  on  the  foreign  trip.  He  had  since  used  three  hundred 
dollars  of  his  remaining  capital  of  twelve  hundred,  but  M. 
Charles'  sale  of  two  pictures  at  four  hundred  each  had  swelled 
his  bank  balance  to  seventeen  hundred  dollars;  however,  on  this 
he  had  to  live  now  until  additional  pictures  were  disposed  of. 
He  daily  hoped  to  hear  of  additional  sales,  but  none  occurred. 

Moreover,  his  exhibition  in  January  did  not  produce  quite  the 
impression  he  thought  it  would.  It  was  fascinating  to  look 
at;  the  critics  and  the  public  imagined  that  by  now  he  must  have 
created  a  following  for  himself,  else  why  should  M.  Charles 
make  a  feature  of  his  work.  But  Charles  pointed  out  that  these 
foreign  studies  could  not  hope  to  appeal  to  Americans  as  did  the 
American  things.  He  indicated  that  they  might  take  better 
in  France.  Eugene  was  depressed  by  the  general  tone  of  the 
opinions,  but  this  was  due  more  to  his  unhealthy  state  of  mind 
than  to  any  inherent  reason  for  feeling  so.  There  was  still 
Paris  to  try  and  there  might  be  some  sales  of  his  work  here. 
The  latter  were  slow  in  materializing,  however,  and  because 
by  February  he  had  not  been  able  to  work  and  because  it  was 
necessary  that  he  should  husband  his  resources  as  carefully  as  pos- 
sible, he  decided  to  accept  Angela's  family's  invitation  as  well  as 
that  of  his  own  parents  and  spend  some  time  in  Illinois  and 
Wisconsin.  Perhaps  his  health  would  become  better.  He  de- 
cided also  that,  if  his  health  permitted,  he  would  work  in  Chi- 
cago. 


CHAPTER  XI 

IT  was  in  packing  the  trunks  and  leaving  the  studio  in  Wash- 
ington Square  (owing  to  the  continued  absence  of  Mr. 
Dexter  they  had  never  been  compelled  to  vacate  it)  that  Angela 
came  across  the  first  evidence  of  Eugene's  duplicity.  Because 
of  his  peculiar  indifference  to  everything  except  matters  which 
related  to  his  art,  he  had  put  the  letters  which  he  had  received 
in  times  past  from  Christina  Channing,  as  well  as  the  one  and 
only  one  from  Ruby  Kenny,  in  a  box  which  had  formerly  con- 
tained writing  paper  and  which  he  threw  carelessly  in  a  corner 
of  his  trunk.  He  had  by  this  time  forgotten  all  about  them, 
though  his  impression  was  that  he  had  placed  them  somewhere 
where  they  would  not  be  found.  When  Angela  started  to  lay 
out  the  various  things  which  occupied  it  she  came  across  this 
box  and  opening  it  took  out  the  letters. 

Curiosity  as  to  things  relative  to  Eugene  was  at  this  time  the 
dominant  characteristic  of  her  life.  She  could  neither  think 
nor  reason  outside  of  this  relationship  which  bound  her  to  him. 
He  and  his  affairs  were  truly  the  sum  and  substance  of  her  ex- 
istence. She  looked  at  the  letters  oddly  and  then  opened  one — 
the  first  from  Christina.  It  was  dated  Florizel,  the  summer 
of  three  years  before  when  she  was  waiting  so  patiently  for  him 
at  Blackwood.  It  began  conservatively  enough — "Dear  E — ," 
but  it  concerned  itself  immediately  with  references  to  an  appar- 
ently affectionate  relationship.  "I  went  this  morning  to  see  if 
by  chance  there  were  any  tell-tale  evidences  of  either  Diana  or 
Adonis  in  Arcady.  There  were  none  of  importance.  A  hair- 
pin or  two,  a  broken  mother-of-pearl  button  from  a  summer 
waist,  the  stub  of  a  lead-pencil  wherewith  a  certain  genius 
sketched.  The  trees  seemed  just  as  unconscious  of  any  nymphs 
or  hamadryads  as  they  could  be.  The  smooth  grass  was  quite 
unruffled  of  any  feet.  It  is  strange  how  much  the  trees  and 
forest  know  and  keep  their  counsel. 

"And  how  is  the  hot  city  by  now?  Do  you  miss  a  certain 
evenly-swung  hammock?  Oh,  the  odor  of  leaves  and  the  dew! 
Don't  work  too  hard.  You  have  an  easy  future  and  almost  too 
much  vitality.  More  repose  for  you,  sir,  and  considerably  more 
optimism  of  thought.  I  send  you  good  wishes. — Diana." 

Angela  wondered  at  once  who  Diana  was,  for  before  she  had 
begun  the  letter  she  had  looked  for  the  signature  on  the  suc- 

256 


THE    "GENIUS"  257 

ceeding  page.  Then  after  reading  this  she  hurried  feverishly 
from  letter  to  letter,  seeking  a  name.  There  was  none.  "Diana 
of  the  Mountains,"  "The  Hamadryad,"  "The  Wood-Nymph," 
"C,"  "C  C" — so  they  ran,  confusing,  badgering,  enraging 
her  until  all  at  once  it  came  to  light — her  first  name  at  least.  It 
was  on  the  letter  from  Baltimore  suggesting  that  he  come  to 
Florizel— "Christina." 

"Ah,"  she  thought,  "Christina!  That  is  her  name."  Then 
she  hurried  back  to  read  the  remaining  epistles,  hoping  to  find 
some  clue  to  her  surname.  They  were  all  of  the  same  char- 
acter, in  the  manner  of  writing  she  despised, — top-lofty,  make- 
believe,  the  nasty,  hypocritical,  cant  and  make-believe  superiority 
of  the  studios.  How  Angela  hated  her  from  that  moment.  How 
she  could  have  taken  her  by  the  throat  and  beaten  her  head 
against  the  trees  she  described.  Oh,  the  horrid  creature!  How 
dare  she !  And  Eugene — how  could  he !  What  a  way  to  reward 
her  love!  What  an  answer  to  make  to  all  her  devotion!  At 
the  very  time  when  she  was  waiting  so  patiently,  he  was  in  the 
mountains  with  this  Diana.  And  here  she  was  packing  his  trunk 
for  him  like  the  little  slave  that  she  was  when  he  cared  so  little, 
had  apparently  cared  so  little  all  this  time.  How  could  he  ever 
have  cared  for  her  and  done  anything  like  this!  He  didn't  1 
He  never  had!  Dear  Heaven! 

She  began  clenching  and  unclenching  her  hands  dramatically, 
working  herself  into  that  frenzy  of  emotion  and  regret  which 
was  her  most  notable  characteristic.  All  at  once  she  stopped. 
There  was  another  letter  in  another  handwriting  on  cheaper 
paper.  "Ruby"  was  the  signature. 

"Dear  Eugene:" — she  read —  "I  got  your  note  several  weeks 
ago,  but  I  couldn't  bring  myself  to  answer  it  before  this.  I 
know  everything  is  over  between  us  and  that  is  all  right  I  sup- 
pose. It  has  to  be.  You  couldn't  love  any  woman  long,  I 
think.  I  know  what  you  say  about  having  to  go  to  New  York 
to  broaden  your  field  is  true.  You  ought  to,  but  I'm  sorry  you 
didn't  come  out.  You  might  have.  Still  I  don't  blame  you, 
Eugene.  It  isn't  much  different  from  what  has  been  going  on 
for  some  time.  I  have  cared,  but  I'll  get  over  that,  I  know,  and 
I  won't  ever  think  hard  of  you.  Won't  you  return  me  the  notes 
I  have  sent  you  from  time  to  time,  and  my  picture?  You  won't 
want  them  now. — Ruby." 

"I  stood  by  the  window  last  night  and  looked  out  on  the  street. 
The  moon  was  shining  and  those  dead  trees  were  waving  in  the 
wind.  I  saw  the  moon  on  that  pool  of  water  over  in  the  field. 
It  looked  like  silver.  Oh,  Eugene,  I  wish  that  I  were  dead." 


258  THE    "GENIUS" 

Angela  got  up  (as  Eugene  had)  when  she  read  this.  The 
pathos  struck  home,  for  somehow  it  matched  her  own.  Ruby! 
Who  was  she  ?  Where  had  she  been  concealed  while  she,  Angela, 
was  coming  to  Chicago?  Was  this  the  fall  and  winter  of  their 
engagement?  It  certainly  was.  Look  at  the  date.  He  had 
given  her  the  diamond  ring  on  her  finger  that  fall!  He  had 
sworn  eternal  affection !  He  had  sworn  there  was  never  another 
girl  like  her  in  all  the  world  and  yet,  at  that  very  time,  he  was 
apparently  paying  court  to  this  woman  if  nothing  worse.  Heaven ! 
Could  anything  like  this  really  be?  He  was  telling  her  that 
he  loved  her  and  making  love  to  this  Ruby  at  the  same  time. 
He  was  kissing  and  fondling  her  and  Ruby  too!  !  Was  there 
ever  such  a  situation?  He,  Eugene  Witla,  to  deceive  her  this 
way.  No  wonder  he  wanted  to  get  rid  of  her  when  he  came  to 
New  York.  He  would  have  treated  her  as  he  had  this  Ruby. 
And  Christina!  This  Christina!  !  Where  was  she?  Who 
was  she?  What  was  she  doing  now?  She  jumped  up  prepared 
to  go  to  Eugene  and  charge  him  with  his  iniquities,  but  re- 
membered that  he  was  out  of  the  studio — that  he  had  gone 
for  a  walk.  He  was  sick  now,  very  sick.  Would  she  dare  to 
reproach  him  with  these  reprehensible  episodes? 

She  came  back  to  the  trunk  where  she  was  working  and  sat 
down.  Her  eyes  were  hard  and  cold  for  the  time,  but  at  the 
same  time  there  was  a  touch  of  terror  and  of  agonized  affection. 
A  face  that,  in  the  ordinary  lines  of  its  repose,  was  very  much 
like  that  of  a  madonna,  was  now  drawn  and  peaked  and  gray. 
Apparently  Christina  had  forsaken  him,  or  it  might  be  that 
they  still  corresponded  secretly.  She  got  up  again  at  that 
thought.  Still  the  letters  were  old.  It  looked  as  though  all 
communication  had  ceased  two  years  ago.  What  had  he  written 
to  her? — love  notes.  Letters  full  of  wooing  phrases  such  as  he 
had  written  to  her.  Oh,  the  instability  of  men,  the  insincerity, 
the  lack  of  responsibility  and  sense  of  duty.  Her  father, — 
what  a  different  man  he  was;  her  brothers, — their  word  was 
their  bond.  And  here  was  she  married  to  a  man  who,  even  in 
the  days  of  his  most  ardent  wooing,  had  been  deceiving  her. 
She  had  let  him  lead  her  astray,  too, — disgrace  her  own  home. 
Tears  came  after  a  while,  hot,  scalding  tears  that  seared  her 
cheeks.  And  now  she  was  married  to  him  and  he  was  sick 
and  she  would  have  to  make  the  best  of  it.  She  wanted  to  make 
the  best  of  it,  for  after  all  she  loved  him. 

But  oh,  the  cruelty,  the  insincerity,  the  unkindness,  the  bru- 
tality of  it  all. 

The  fact  that  Eugene  was  out  for  several  hours  following 


THE    "GENIUS'  259 

her  discovery  gave  her  ample  time  to  reflect  as  to  a  suitable 
course  of  action.  Being  so  impressed  by  the  genius  of  the  man, 
as  imposed  upon  her  by  the  opinion  of  others  and  her  own  af- 
fection, she  could  not  readily  think  of  anything  save  some  method 
of  ridding  her  soul  of  this  misery  and  him  of  his  evil  tendencies, 
of  making  him  ashamed  of  his  wretched  career,  of  making  him 
see  how  badly  he  had  treated  her  and  how  sorry  he  ought  to  be. 
She  wanted  him  to  feel  sorry,  very  sorry,  so  that  he  would  be  a 
long  time  repenting  in  suffering,  but  she  feared  at  the  same 
time  that  she  could  not  make  him  do  that.  He  was  so  ethereal, 
so  indifferent,  so  lost  in  the  contemplation  of  life  that  he  could 
not  be  made  to  think  of  her.  That  was  her  one  complaint. 
He  had  other  gods  before  her — the  god  of  his  art,  the  god  of  na- 
ture, the  god  of  people  as  a  spectacle.  Frequently  she  had  com- 
plained to  him  in  this  last  year — "you  don't  love  me!  you  don't 
love  me!"  but  he  would  answer,  "oh,  yes  I  do.  I  can't  be  talking 
to  you  all  the  time,  Angel-face.  I  have  work  to  do.  My  art  has 
to  be  cultivated.  I  can't  be  making  love  all  the  time." 

"Oh,  it  isn't  that,  it  isn't  that!"  she  would  exclaim  passion- 
ately. "You  just  don't  love  me,  like  you  ought  to.  You  just 
don't  care.  If  you  did  I'd  feel  it." 

"Oh,  Angela,"  he  answered,  "why  do  you  talk  so?  Why  do 
you  carry  on  so?  You're  the  funniest  girl  I  ever  knew.  Now 
be  reasonable.  Why  don't  you  bring  a  little  philosophy  to  bear? 
We  can't  be  billing  and  cooing  all  the  time!" 

"Billing  and  cooing!  That's  the  way  you  think  of  it.  That's 
the  way  you  talk  of  it!  As  though  it  were  something  you  had 
to  do.  Oh,  I  hate  love!  I  hate  life!  I  hate  philosophy!  I 
wish  I  could  die." 

"Now,  Angela,  for  Heaven's  sake,  why  will  you  take  on  so? 
I  can't  stand  this.  I  can't  stand  these  tantrums  of  yours. 
They're  not  reasonable.  You  know  I  love  you.  Why,  haven't 
I  shown  it?  Why  should  I  have  married  you  if  I  didn't?  I 
wasn't  obliged  to  marry  you!" 

"Oh,  dear!  oh,  dear!"  Angela  would  sob  on,  wringing  her 
hands.  "Oh,  you  really  don't  love  me!  You  don't  care!  And  it 
will  go  on  this  way,  getting  worse  and  worse,  with  less  and  less 
of  love  and  feeling  until  after  awhile  you  won't  even  want  to 
see  me  any  more — you'll  hate  me!  Oh,  dear!  oh,  dear!" 

Eugene  felt  keenly  the  pathos  involved  in  this  picture  of 
decaying  love.  In  fact,  her  fear  of  the  disaster  which  might  over- 
take her  little  bark  of  happiness  was  sufficiently  well  founded. 
It  might  be  that  his  affection  would  cease — it  wasn't  even  affec- 
tion now  in  the  true  sense  of  the  word, — a  passionate  intellectual 


260  THE   "GENIUS" 

desire  for  her  companionship.  He  never  had  really  loved  her 
for  her  mind,  the  beauty  of  her  thoughts.  As  he  meditated  he 
realized  that  he  had  never  reached  an  understanding  with  her 
by  an  intellectual  process  at  all.  It  was  emotional,  subconscious, 
a  natural  drawing  together  which  was  not  based  on  reason  and 
spirituality  of  contemplation  apparently,  but  on  grosser  emo- 
tions and  desires.  Physical  desire  had  been  involved — strong, 
raging,  uncontrollable.  And  for  some  reason  he  had  always  felt 
sorry  for  her — he  always  had.  She  was  so  little,  so  conscious  of 
disaster,  so  afraid  of  life  and  what  it  might  do  to  her.  It  was 
a  shame  to  wreck  her  hopes  and  desires.  At  the  same  time  he 
was  sorry  now  for  this  bondage  he  had  let  himself  into — this 
yoke  which  he  had  put  about  his  neck.  He  could  have  done  so 
much  better.  He  might  have  married  a  woman  of  wealth  or 
a  woman  with  artistic  perceptions  and  philosophic  insight  like 
Christina  Channing,  who  would  be  peaceful  and  happy  with 
him.  Angela  couldn't  be.  He  really  didn't  admire  her  enough, 
couldn't  fuss  over  her  enough.  Even  while  he  was  soothing  her 
in  these  moments,  trying  to  make  her  believe  that  there  was  no 
basis  for  her  fears,  sympathizing  with  her  subconscious  intui- 
tions that  all  wTas  not  well,  he  was  thinking  of  how  different  his 
life  might  have  been. 

"It  won't  end  that  way,"  he  would  soothe.  "Don't  cry.  Come 
now,  don't  cry.  We're  going  to  be  very  happy.  I'm  going  to 
love  you  always,  just  as  I'm  loving  you  now,  and  you're  going 
to  love  me.  Won't  that  be  all  right?  Come  on,  now.  Cheer 
up.  Don't  be  so  pessimistic.  Come  on,  Angela.  Please  do. 
Please!" 

Angela  would  brighten  after  a  time,  but  there  were  spells  of 
apprehension  and  gloom ;  they  were  common,  apt  to  burst  forth 
like  a  summer  storm  when  neither  of  them  was  really  expect- 
ing it. 

The  discovery  of  these  letters  now  checked  the  feeling,  with 
which  she  tried  to  delude  herself  at  times,  that  there  might  be 
anything  more  than  kindness  here.  They  confirmed  her  sus- 
picions that  there  was  not  and  brought  on  that  sense  of  defeat  and 
despair  which  so  often  and  so  tragically  overcame  her.  It  did 
it  at  a  time,  too,  when  Eugene  needed  her  undivided  considera- 
tion and  feeling,  for  he  was  in  a  wretched  state  of  mind.  To 
have  her  quarrel  with  him  now,  lose  her  temper,  fly  into  rages 
and  compel  him  to  console  her,  was  very  trying.  He  was  in 
no  mood  for  it;  could  not  very  well  endure  it  without  injury 
to  himself.  He  was  seeking  for  an  atmosphere  of  joyousness, 
wishing  to  find  a  cheerful  optimism  somewhere  which  would  pull 


THE    "GENIUS"  261 

him  out  of  himself  and  make  him  whole.  Not  infrequently  he 
dropped  in  to  see  Norma  Whitmore,  Isadora  Crane,  who  was 
getting  along  very  well  on  the  stage,  Hedda  Andersen,  who  had 
a  natural  charm  of  intellect  with  much  vivacity,  even  though 
she  was  a  model,  and  now  and  then  Miriam  Finch.  The  latter 
was  glad  to  see  him  alone,  almost  as  a  testimony  against  Angela, 
though  she  would  not  go  out  of  her  way  to  conceal  from  Angela 
the  fact  that  he  had  been  there.  The  others,  though  he  said 
nothing,  assumed  that  since  Angela  did  not  come  with  him  he 
wanted  nothing  said  and  observed  his  wish.  They  were  inclined 
to  think  that  he  had  made  a  matrimonial  mistake  and  was  pos- 
sibly artistically  or  intellectually  lonely.  All  of  them  noted  his 
decline  in  health  with  considerate  apprehension  and  sorrow.  It 
was  too  bad,  they  thought,  if  his  health  was  going  to  fail  him 
just  at  this  time.  Eugene  lived  in  fear  lest  Angela  should  become 
aware  of  any  of  these  visits.  He  thought  he  could  not  tell  her 
because  in  the  first  place  she  would  resent  his  not  having  taken 
her  with  him;  and  in  the  next,  if  he  had  proposed  it  first,  she 
would  have  objected,  or  set  another  date,  or  asked  pointless  ques- 
tions. He  liked  the  liberty  of  going  where  he  pleased,  saying 
nothing,  not  feeling  it  necessary  to  say  anything.  He  longed  for 
the  freedom  of  his  old  pre-matrimonial  days.  Just  at  this  time, 
because  he  could  not  work  artistically  and  because  he  was  in  need 
of  diversion  and  of  joyous  artistic  palaver,  he  was  especially 
miserable.  Life  seemed  very  dark  and  ugly. 

Eugene,  returning  and  feeling,  as  usual,  depressed  about  his 
state,  sought  to  find  consolation  in  her  company.  He  came  in 
at  one  o'clock,  their  usual  lunch  hour,  and  finding  Angela  still 
working,  said,  "George!  but  you  like  to  keep  at  things  when 
you  get  started,  don't  you?  You're  a  regular  little  work-horse. 
Having  much  trouble?" 

"No-o,"  replied  Angela,  dubiously. 

Eugene  noted  the  tone  of  her  voice.  He  thought  she  was 
not  very  strong  and  this  packing  was  getting  on  her  nerves. 
Fortunately  there  were  only  some  trunks  to  look  after,  for 
the  vast  mass  of  their  housekeeping  materials  belonged  to  the 
studio.  Still  no  doubt  she  was  weary. 

"Are  you  very  tired  ?"  he  asked. 

"No-o,"  she  replied. 

"You  look  it,"  he  said,  slipping  his  arm  about  her.  Her  face, 
which  he  turned  up  with  his  hand,  was  pale  and  drawn. 

"It  isn't  anything  physical,"  she  replied,  looking  away  from 
him  in  a  tragic  way.  "It's  just  my  heart.  It's  here!"  and  she 
laid  her  hand  over  her  heart. 


262  THE    "GENIUS" 

"What's  the  matter  now?"  he  asked,  suspecting  something 
emotional,  though  for  the  life  of  him  he  could  not  imagine  what. 
"Does  your  heart  hurt  you?" 

"It  isn't  my  real  heart,"  she  returned,  "it's  just  my  mind,  my 
feelings;  though  I  don't  suppose  they  ought  to  matter." 

"What's  the  matter  now,  Angel-face,"  he  persisted,  for  he 
was  sorry  for  her.  This  emotional  ability  of  hers  had  the  power 
to  move  him.  It  might  have  been  acting,  or  it  might  not  have 
been.  It  might  be  either  a  real  or  a  fancied  woe ; — in  either  case 
it  was  real  to  her.  "What's  come  up?"  he  continued.  "Aren't 
you  just  tired?  Suppose  we  quit  this  and  go  out  somewhere  and 
get  something  to  eat.  You'll  feel  better." 

"No,  I  couldn't  eat,"  she  replied.  "I'll  stop  now  and  get 
your  lunch,  but  I  don't  want  anything." 

"Oh,  what's  the  matter,  Angela?"  he  begged.  "I  know  there's 
something.  Now  what  is  it?  You're  tired,  or  you're  sick,  or 
something  has  happened.  Is  it  anything  that  I  have  done?  Look 
at  me!  Is  it?" 

Angela  held  away  from  him,  looking  down.  She  did  not 
know  how  to  begin  this  but  she  wanted  to  make  him  terribly 
sorry  if  she  could,  as  sorry  as  she  was  for  herself.  She  thought 
he  ought  to  be;  that  if  he  had  any  true  feeling  of  shame  and 
sympathy  in  him  he  would  be.  Her  own  condition  in  the  face 
of  his  shameless  past  was  terrible.  She  had  no  one  to  love  her. 
She  had  no  one  to  turn  to.  Her  own  family  did  not  under- 
stand her  life  any  more — it  had  changed  so.  She  was  a  different 
woman  now,  greater,  more  important,  more  distinguished.  Her 
experiences  with  Eugene  here  in  New  York,  in  Paris,  in  London 
and  even  before  her  marriage,  in  Chicago  and  Blackwood,  had 
changed  her  point  of  view.  She  was  no  longer  the  same  in  her 
ideas,  she  thought,  and  to  find  herself  deserted  in  this  way  emo- 
tionally— not  really  loved,  not  ever  having  been  really  loved 
but  just  toyed  with,  made  a  doll  and  a  plaything,  was  terrible. 

"Oh,  dear!"  she  exclaimed  in  a  shrill  staccato,  "I  don't  know 
what  to  do!  I  don't  know  what  to  say!  I  don't  know  what  to 
think!  If  I  only  knew  how  to  think  or  what  to  do!" 

"What's  the  matter?"  begged  Eugene,  releasing  his  hold  and 
turning  his  thoughts  partially  to  himself  and  his  own  condition 
as  well  as  to  hers.  His  nerves  were  put  on  edge  by  these  emo- 
tional tantrums — his  brain  fairly  ached.  It  made  his  hands 
tremble.  In  his  days  of  physical  and  nervous  soundness  it  did 
not  matter,  but  now,  when  he  was  sick,  when  his  own  heart  was 
weak,  as  he  fancied,  and  his  nerves  set  to  jangling  by  the  least 
discord,  it  was  almost  more  than  he  could  bear.  "Why  don't 


THE    "GENIUS"  263 

you  speak?"  he  insisted.  "You  know  I  can't  stand  this.  I'm 
in  no  condition.  What's  the  trouble?  What's  the  use  of  carry- 
ing on  this  way?  Are  you  going  to  tell  me?" 

"There!"  Angela  said,  pointing  her  finger  at  the  box  of  let- 
ters she  had  laid  aside  on  the  window-sill.  She  knew  he  would 
see  them,  would  remember  instantly  what  they  were  about. 

Eugene  looked.  The  box  came  to  his  memory  instantly.  He 
picked  it  up  nervously,  sheepishly,  for  this  was  like  a  blow  in  the 
face  which  he  had  no  power  to  resist.  The  whole  peculiar  na- 
ture of  his  transactions  with  Ruby  and  with  Christina  came  back 
to  him,  not  as  they  had  looked  to  him  at  the  time,  but  as  they  were 
appearing  to  Angela  now\  What  must  she  think  of  him?  Here 
he  was  protesting  right  along  that  he  loved  her,  that  he  was 
happy  and  satisfied  to  live  with  her,  that  he  was  not  interested 
in  any  of  these  other  women  whom  she  knew  to  be  interested  in 
him  and  of  whom  she  was  inordinately  jealous,  that  he  had  al- 
ways loved  her  and  her  only,  and  yet  here  were  these  letters  sud- 
denly come  to  light,  giving  the  lie  to  all  these  protestations  and 
asseverations — making  him  look  like  the  coward,  the  black- 
guard, the  moral  thief  that  he  knew  himself  to  be.  To  be 
dragged  out  of  the  friendly  darkness  of  lack  of  knowledge  and 
understanding  on  her  part  and  set  forth  under  the  clear  white 
light  of  positive  proof — he  stared  helplessly,  his  nerves  trem- 
bling, his  brain  aching,  for  truly  he  was  in  no  condition  for  an 
emotional  argument. 

And  yet  Angela  was  crying  now.  She  had  walked  away  from 
him  and  was  leaning  against  the  mantel-piece  sobbing  as  if  her 
heart  would  break.  There  was  a  real  convincing  ache  in  the 
sound — the  vibration  expressing  the  sense  of  loss  and  defeat  and 
despair  which  she  felt.  He  was  staring  at  the  box  wondering 
why  he  had  been  such  an  idiot  as  to  leave  them  in  his  trunk,  to 
have  saved  them  at  all. 

"Well,  I  don't  know  that  there  is  anything  to  say  to  that," 
he  observed  finally,  strolling  over  to  where  she  was.  There 
wasn't  anything  that  he  could  say — that  he  knew.  He  was 
terribly  sorry — sorry  for  her,  sorry  for  himself.  "Did  you 
read  them  all?"  he  asked,  curiously. 

She  nodded  her  head  in  the  affirmative. 

"Well,  I  didn't  care  so  much  for  Christina  Channing,"  he 
observed,  deprecatingly.  He  wanted  to  say  something,  anything 
which  would  relieve  her  depressed  mood.  He  knew  it  couldn't 
be  much.  If  he  could  only  make  her  believe  that  there  wasn't 
anything  vital  in  either  of  these  affairs,  that  his  interests  and 
protestations  had  been  of  a  light,  philandering  character.  Still 


264  THE    "GENIUS" 

the  Ruby  Kenny  letter  showed  that  she  cared  for  him  des- 
perately. He  could  not  say  anything  against  Ruby. 

Angela  caught  the  name  of  Christina  Channing  clearly.  It 
seared  itself  in  her  brain.  She  recalled  now  that  it  was  she  of 
whom  she  had  heard  him  speak  in  a  complimentary  way  from 
time  to  time.  He  had  told  in  studios  of  what  a  lovely  voice  she 
had,  what  a  charming  platform  presence  she  had,  how  she  could 
sing  so  feelingly,  how  intelligently  she  looked  upon  life,  how 
good  looking  she  was,  how  she  was  coming  back  to  grand  opera 
some  day.  And  he  had  been  in  the  mountains  with  her — had 
made  love  to  her  while  she,  Angela,  was  out  in  Blackwood  wait- 
ing for  him  patiently.  It  aroused  on  the  instant  all  the  fight- 
ing jealousy  that  was  in  her  breast;  it  was  the  same  jealousy  that 
had  determined  her  once  before  to  hold  him  in  spite  of  the  plot- 
ting and  scheming  that  appeared  to  her  to  be  going  on  about 
her.  They  should  not  have  him — these  nasty  studio  superiori- 
ties— not  any  one  of  them,  nor  all  of  them  combined,  if  they 
were  to  unite  and  try  to  get  him.  They  had  treated  her  shame- 
fully since  she  had  been  in  the  East.  They  had  almost  uni- 
formly ignored  her.  They  would  come  to  see  Eugene,  of  course, 
and  now  that  he  was  famous  they  could  not  be  too  nice  to  him, 
but  as  for  her — well,  they  had  no  particular  use  for  her.  Hadn't 
she  seen  it!  Hadn't  she  watched  the  critical,  hypocritical,  ex- 
amining expressions  in  their  eyes!  She  wasn't  smart  enough! 
She  wasn't  literary  enough  or  artistic  enough.  She  knew  as 
much  about  life  as  they  did  and  more — ten  times  as  much;  and 
yet  because  she  couldn't  strut  and  pose  and  stare  and  talk  in  an 
affected  voice  they  thought  themselves  superior.  And  so  did 
Eugene,  the  wretched  creature!  Superior!  The  cheap,  mean, 
nasty,  selfish  upstarts!  Why,  the  majority  of  them  had  nothing. 
Their  clothes  were  mere  rags  and  tags,  when  you  came  to 
examine  them  closely — badly  sewed,  of  poor  material,  merely 
slung  together,  and  yet  they  wore  them  with  such  a  grand 
air!  She  would  show  them.  She  would  dress  herself  too,  one 
of  these  days,  when  Eugene  had  the  means.  She  was  doing 
it  now — a  great  deal  more  than  when  she  first  came,  and  she 
would  do  it  a  great  deal  more  before  long.  The  nasty,  mean, 
cheap,  selfish,  make-belief  things.  She  would  show  them !  O-oh ! 
how  she  hated  them. 

Now  as  she  cried  she  also  thought  of  the  fact  that  Eugene 
could  write  love  letters  to  this  horrible  Christina  Channing — 
one  of  the  same  kind,  no  doubt;  her  letters  showed  it.  O-oh! 
how  she  hated  her!  If  she  could  only  get  at  her  to  poison  her. 
And  her  sobs  sounded  much  more  of  the  sorrow  she  felt  than  of 


THE    "GENIUS"  265 

the  rage.  She  was  helpless  in  a  way  and  she  knew  it.  She 
did  not  dare  to  show  him  exactly  what  she  felt.  She  was  afraid 
of  him.  He  might  possibly  leave  her.  He  really  did  not  care 
for  her  enough  to  stand  everything  from  her — or  did  he?  This 
doubt  was  the  one  terrible,  discouraging,  annihilating  feature  of 
the  whole  thing — if  he  only  cared. 

"I  wish  you  wouldn't  cry,  Angela,"  said  Eugene  appealingly, 
after  a  time.  "It  isn't  as  bad  as  you  think.  It  looks  pretty 
bad,  but  I  wasn't  married  then,  and  I  didn't  care  so  very  much 
for  these  people — not  as  much  as  you  think;  really  I  didn't.  It 
may  look  that  way  to  you,  but  I  didn't." 

"Didn't  care !"  sneered  Angela,  all  at  once,  flaring  up.  "Didn't 
care!  It  looks  as  though  you  didn't  care,  with  one  of  them 
calling  you  Honey  Boy  and  Adonis,  and  the  other  saying  she 
wishes  she  were  dead.  A  fine  time  you'd  have  convincing  any- 
one that  you  didn't  care.  And  I  out  in  Blackwood  at  that 
very  time,  longing  and  waiting  for  you  to  come,  and  you  up  in  the 
mountains  making  love  to  another  woman.  Oh,  I  know  how 
much  you  cared.  You  showed  how  much  you  cared  when  you 
could  leave  me  out  there  to  wait  for  you  eating  my  heart  out 
while  you  were  off  in  the  mountains  having  a  good  time  with 
another  woman.  'Dear  E — /  and  Trecious  Honey  Boy,1  and 
'Adonis'!  That  shows  how  much  you  cared,  doesn't  it!" 

Eugene  stared  before  him  helplessly.  Her  bitterness  and 
wrath  surprised  and  irritated  him.  He  did  not  know  that  she 
was  capable  of  such  an  awful  rage  as  showed  itself  in  her 
face  and  words  at  this  moment,  and  yet  he  did  not  know  but 
that  she  was  well  justified.  Why  so  bitter  though — so  almost 
brutal?  He  was  sick.  Had  she  no  consideration  for  him? 

"I  tell  you  it  wasn't  as  bad  as  you  think,"  he  said  stolidly, 
showing  for  the  first  time  a  trace  of  temper  and  opposition. 
"I  wasn't  married  then.  I  did  like  Christina  Channing;  I 
did  like  Ruby  Kenny.  What  of  it?  I  can't  help  it  now. 
What  am  I  going  to  say  about  it?  What  do  you  want  me 
to  say?  What  do  you  want  me  to  do?" 

"Oh,"  whimpered  Angela,  changing  her  tone  at  once  from  help- 
less accusing  rage  to  pleading,  self-commiserating  misery.  "And 
you  can  stand  there  and  say  to  me  'what  of  it'?  What  of  it! 
What  of  it!  What  shall  you  say?  What  do  you  think  you 
ought  to  say?  And  me  believing  that  you  were  so  honorable 
and  faithful!  Oh,  if  I  had  only  known!  If  I  had  only  known! 
I  had  better  have  drowned  myself  a  hundred  times  over  than  have 
waked  and  found  that  I  wasn't  loved.  Oh,  dear,  oh,  dear!  I 
don't  know  what  I  ought  to  do !  I  don't  know  what  I  can  do !" 


266  THE    "GENIUS" 

"But  I  do  love  you,"  protested  Eugene  soothingly,  anxious  to 
say  or  do  anything  which  would  quiet  this  terrific  storm.  He 
could  not  imagine  how  he  could  have  been  so  foolish  as  to 
leave  these  letters  lying  around.  Dear  Heaven!  What  a  mess 
he  had  made  of  this!  If  only  he  had  put  them  safely  outside 
the  home  or  destroyed  them.  Still  he  had  wanted  to  keep 
Christina's  letters ;  they  were  so  charming. 

"Yes,  you  love  me!"  flared  Angela.  "I  see  how  you  love  me. 
Those  letters  show  it!  Oh,  dear!  oh,  dear!  I  wish  I  were 
dead." 

"Listen  to  me,  Angela,"  replied  Eugene  desperately,  "I  know 
this  correspondence  looks  bad.  I  did  make  love  to  Miss  Kenny 
and  to  Christina  Channing,  but  you  see  I  didn't  care  enough 
to  marry  either  of  them.  If  I  had  I  would  have.  I  cared 
for  you.  Believe  it  or  not.  I  married  you.  Why  did  I  marry 
you?  Answer  me  that?  I  needn't  have  married  you.  Why 
did  I  ?  Because  I  loved  you,  of  course.  What  other  reason 
could  I  have?" 

"Because  you  couldn't  get  Christina  Channing,"  snapped  An- 
gela, angrily,  with  the  intuitive  sense  of  one  who  reasons  from 
one  material  fact  to  another,  "that's  why.  If  you  could  have, 
you  would  have.  I  know  it.  Her  letters  show  it." 

"Her  letters  don't  show  anything  of  the  sort,"  returned 
Eugene  angrily.  "I  couldn't  get  her?  I  could  have  had  her, 
easily  enough.  I  didn't  want  her.  If  I  had  wanted  her,  I  would 
have  married  her — you  can  bet  on  that." 

He  hated  himself  for  lying  in  this  way,  but  he  felt  for  the 
time  being  that  he  had  to  do  it.  He  did  not  care  to  stand  in 
the  role  of  a  jilted  lover.  He  half-fancied  that  he  could  have 
married  Christina  if  he  had  really  tried. 

"Anyhow,"  he  said,  "I'm  not  going  to  argue  that  point  with 
you.  I  didn't  marry  her,  so  there  you  are;  and  I  didn't  marry 
Ruby  Kenny  either.  Well  you  can  think  all  you  want;  but 
I  know.  I  cared  for  them,  but  I  didn't  marry  them.  I 
married  you  instead.  I  ought  to  get  credit  for  something  on  that 
score.  I  married  you  because  I  loved  you,  I  suppose.  That's 
perfectly  plain,  isn't  it?"  He  was  half  convincing  himself 
that  he  had  loved  her — in  some  degree. 

"Yes,  I  see  how  you  love  me,"  persisted  Angela,  cogitating  this 
very  peculiar  fact  which  he  was  insisting  on  and  which  it  was 
very  hard  intellectually  to  overcome.  "You  married  me  be- 
cause you  couldn't  very  well  get  out  of  it,  that's  why.  Oh,  I 
know.  You  didn't  want  to  marry  me.  That's  very  plain. 
You  wanted  to  marry  someone  else.  Oh,  dear!  oh,  dear!" 


THE    "GENIUS"  267 

"Oh,  how  you  talk!''  replied  Eugene  defiantly.  "Marry  some- 
one else!  Who  did  I  want  to  marry?  I  could  have  married 
often  enough  if  I  had  wanted  to.  I  didn't  want  to  marry, 
that's  all.  Believe  it  or  not.  I  wanted  to  marry  you  and  I 
did.  I  don't  think  you  have  any  right  to  stand  there  and  argue 
so.  What  you  say  isn't  so,  and  you  know  it." 

Angela  cogitated  this  argument  further.  He  had  married  her! 
Why  had  he?  He  might  have  cared  for  Christina  and  Ruby, 
but  he  must  have  cared  for  her  too.  Why  hadn't  she  thought 
of  that?  There  was  something  in  it — something  besides  a  mere 
desire  to  deceive  her.  Perhaps  he  did  care  for  her  a  little.  Any- 
way it  was  plain  that  she  could  not  get  very  far  by  arguing 
with  him — he  was  getting  stubborn,  argumentative,  contentious. 
She  had  not  seen  him  that  way  before. 

"Oh!"  she  sobbed,  taking  refuge  from  this  very  difficult 
realm  of  logic  in  the  safer  and  more  comfortable  one  of  illogical 
tears.  "I  don't  know  what  to  do!  I  don't  know  what  to  think!" 

She  was  badly  treated,  no  doubt  of  that.  Her  life  was  a 
failure,  but  even  so  there  was  some  charm  about  him.  As  he 
stood  there,  looking  aimlessly  around,  defiant  at  one  moment, 
appealing  at  another,  she  could  not  help  seeing  that  he  was  not 
wholly  bad.  He  was  just  weak  on  this  one  point.  He  loved 
pretty  women.  They  were  always  trying  to  win  him  to  them. 
He  was  probably  not  wholly  to  blame.  If  he  would  only  be  re- 
pentant enough,  this  thing  might  be  allowed  to  blow  over. 
It  couldn't  be  forgiven.  She  never  could  forgive  him  for  the 
way  he  had  deceived  her.  Her  ideal  of  him  had  been  pretty 
hopelessly  shattered — but  she  might  live  with  him  on  probation. 

"Angela!"  he  said,  while  she  was  still  sobbing,  and  feeling 
that  he  ought  to  apologize  to  her.  "Won't  you  believe  me? 
Won't  you  forgive  me?  I  don't  like  to  hear  you  cry  this  way. 
There's  no  use  saying  that  I  didn't  do  anything.  There's  no 
use  my  saying  anything  at  all,  really.  You  won't  believe  me.  I 
don't  want  you  to;  but  I'm  sorry.  Won't  you  believe  that? 
Won't  you  forgive  me?" 

Angela  listened  to  this  curiously,  her  thoughts  going  around 
in  a  ring  for  she  was  at  once  despairing,  regretful,  revengeful, 
critical,  sympathetic  toward  him,  desirous  of  retaining  her  state, 
desirous  of  obtaining  and  retaining  his  love,  desirous  of  punish- 
ing him,  desirous  of  doing  any  one  of  a  hundred  things.  Oh, 
if  he  had  only  never  done  this!  And  he  was  sickly,  too.  He 
needed  her  sympathy. 

"Won't  you  forgive  me,  Angela?"  he  pleaded  softly,  laying 
his  hand  on  her  arm.  "I'm  not  going  to  do  anything  like 


268  THE    "GENIUS" 

that  any  more.  Won't  you  believe  me?  Come  on  now.  Quit 
crying,  won't  you  ?" 

Angela  hesitated  for  a  while,  lingering  dolefully.  She  did 
not  know  what  to  do,  what  to  say.  It  might  be  that  he  would 
not  sin  against  her  any  more.  He  had  not  thus  far,  in  so  far  as 
she  knew.  Still  this  was  a  terrible  revelation.  All  at  once, 
because  he  manoeuvred  himself  into  a  suitable  position  and  be- 
cause she  herself  was  weary  of  fighting  and  crying,  and  because 
she  was  longing  for  sympathy,  she  allowed  herself  to  be  pulled 
into  his  arms,  her  head  to  his  shoulder,  and  there  she  cried 
more  copiously  than  ever.  Eugene  for  the  moment  felt  terribly 
grieved.  He  was  really  sorry  for  her.  It  wasn't  right.  He 
ought  to  be  ashamed  of  himself.  He  should  never  have  done  any- 
thing like  that. 

"I'm  sorry,"  he  whispered,  "really  I  am.  Won't  you  forgive 
me?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know  what  to  do!  what  to  think!"  moaned  An- 
gela after  a  time. 

"Please  do,  Angela,"  he  urged,  holding  her  questioningly. 

There  was  more  of  this  pleading  and  emotional  badgering 
until  finally  out  of  sheer  exhaustion  Angela  said  yes.  Eugene's 
nerves  were  worn  to  a  thread  by  the  encounter.  He  was  pale, 
exhausted,  distraught.  Many  scenes  like  this,  he  thought,  would 
set  him  crazy ;  and  still  he  had  to  go  through  a  world  of  petting 
and  love-making  even  now.  It  was  not  easy  to  bring  her  back 
to  her  normal  self.  It  was  bad  business,  this  philandering,  he 
thought.  It  seemed  to  lead  to  all  sorts  of  misery  for  him,  and 
Angela  was  jealous.  Dear  Heaven!  what  a  wrathful,  vicious, 
contentious  nature  she  had  when  she  was  aroused.  He  had  never 
suspected  that.  How  could  he  truly  love  her  when  she  acted 
like  that?  How  could  he  sympathize  with  her?  He  recalled 
kow  she  sneered  at  him — how  she  taunted  him  with  Christina's 
having  discarded  him.  He  was  weary,  excited,  desirous  of  rest 
and  sleep,  but  now  he  must  make  more  love.  He  fondled  her, 
and  by  degrees  she  came  out  of  her  blackest  mood;  but  he  was 
not  really  forgiven  even  then.  He  was  just  understood  better. 
And  she  was  not  truly  happy  again  but  only  hopeful — and 
watchful. 


CHAPTER   XII 

SPRING,  summer  and  fall  came  and  went  with  Eugene  and 
Angela  first  in  Alexandria  and  then  in  Blackwood.  In 
suffering  this  nervous  breakdown  and  being  compelled  to  leave 
New  York,  Eugene  missed  some  of  the  finest  fruits  of  his  artistic 
efforts,  for  M.  Charles,  as  well  as  a  number  of  other  people, 
were  interested  in  him  and  were  prepared  to  entertain  him  in 
an  interesting  and  conspicuous  way.  He  could  have  gone,  out 
a  great  deal,  but  his  mental  state  was  such  that  he  was  poor 
company  for  anyone.  He  was  exceedingly  morbid,  inclined 
to  discuss  gloomy  subjects,  to  look  on  life  as  exceedingly  sad 
and  to  believe  that  people  generally  were  evil.  Lust,  dishonesty, 
selfishness,  envy,  hypocrisy,  slander,  hate,  theft,  adultery,  murder, 
dementia,  insanity,  inanity — these  and  death  and  decay  occupied 
his  thoughts.  There  was  no  light  anywhere.  Only  a  storm  of 
evil  and  death.  These  ideas  coupled  with  his  troubles  with 
Angela,  the  fact  that  he  could  not  work,  the  fact  that  he  felt 
he  had  made  a  matrimonial  mistake,  the  fact  that  he  feared 
he  might  die  or  go  crazy,  made  a  terrible  and  agonizing  winter 
for  him. 

Angela's  attitude,  while  sympathetic  enough,  once  the  first 
storm  of  feeling  was  over,  was  nevertheless  involved  with  a 
substratum  of  criticism.  While  she  said  nothing,  agreed  that 
she  would  forget,  Eugene  had  the  consciousness  all  the  while 
that  she  wasn't  forgetting,  that  she  was  secretly  reproaching 
him  and  that  she  was  looking  for  new  manifestations  of  weak- 
ness in  this  direction,  expecting  them  and  on  the  alert  to  pre- 
vent them. 

The  spring-time  in  Alexandria,  opening  as  it  did  shortly  after 
they  reached  there,  wras  in  a  way  a  source  of  relief  to  Eugene. 
He  had  decided  for  the  time  being  to  give  up  trying  to  work, 
to  give  up  his  idea  of  going  either  to  London  or  Chicago,  and 
merely  rest.  Perhaps  it  was  true  that  he  was  tired.  He  didn't 
feel  that  way.  He  couldn't  sleep  and  he  couldn't  work,  but  he 
felt  brisk  enough.  It  was  only  because  he  couldn't  work  that 
he  was  miserable.  Still  he  decided  to  try  sheer  idleness.  Perhaps 
that  would  revive  his  wonderful  art  for  him.  Meantime  he 
speculated  ceaselessly  on  the  time  he  was  losing,  the  celebrities 
he  was  missing,  the  places  he  was  not  seeing.  Oh,  London, 
London !  If  he  could  only  do  that. 

269 


270  THE    "GENIUS'1 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Witla  were  immensely  pleased  to  have  their  boy 
back  with  them  again.  Being  in  their  way  simple,  unsophisticated 
people,  they  could  not  understand  how  their  son's  health  could 
have  undergone  such  a  sudden  reverse. 

"I  never  saw  Gene  looking  so  bad  in  all  his  life,"  observed 
Witla  pere  to  his  wife  the  day  Eugene  arrived.  "His  eyes  are 
so  sunken.  What  in  the  world  do  you  suppose  is  ailing  him?" 

"How  should  I  know?"  replied  his  wife,  who  was  greatly 
distressed  over  her  boy.  "I  suppose  he's  just  tired  out,  that's 
all.  He'll  probably  be  all  right  after  he  rests  awhile.  Don't 
let  on  that  you  think  he's  looking  out  of  sorts.  Just  pretend 
that  he's  all  right.  What  do  you  think  of  his  wife?" 

"She  appears  to  be  a  very  nice  little  woman,"  replied  Witla. 
"She's  certainly  devoted  to  him.  I  never  thought  Eugene 
would  marry  just  that  type,  but  he's  the  judge.  I  suppose 
people  thought  that  I  would  never  marry  anybody  like  you, 
either,"  he  added  jokingly. 

"Yes,  you  did  make  a  terrible  mistake,"  jested  his  wife  in 
return.  "You  worked  awfully  hard  to  make  it." 

"I  was  young!  I  was  young!  You  want  to  remember  that," 
retorted  Witla.  "I  didn't  know  much  in  those  days." 

"You  don't  appear  to  know  much  better  yet,"  she  replied, 
"do  you?" 

He  smiled  and  patted  her  on  the  back.  "Well,  anyhow 
I'll  have  to  make  the  best  of  it,  won't  I  ?  It's  too  late  now." 

"It  certainly  is."  replied  his  wife. 

Eugene  and  Angela  were  given  his  old  room  on  the  second 
floor,  commanding  a  nice  view  of  the  yard  and  the  street  corner, 
and  they  settled  down  to  spend  what  the  Witla  parents  hoped 
would  be  months  of  peaceful  days.  It  was  a  curious  sensation  to 
Eugene  to  find  himself  back  here  in  Alexandria  looking  out 
upon  the  peaceful  neighborhood  in  which  he  had  been  raised, 
the  trees,  the  lawn,  the  hammock  replaced  several  times  since 
he  had  left,  but  still  in  its  accustomed  place.  The  thought  of 
the  little  lakes  and  the  small  creek  winding  about  the  town 
were  a  comfort  to  him.  He  could  go  fishing  now  and  boating, 
and  there  were  some  interesting  walks  here  and  there.  He 
began  to  amuse  himself  by  going  fishing  the  first  week,  but 
it  was  still  a  little  cold,  and  he  decided,  for  the  time  being,  to 
confine  himself  to  walking. 

Days  of  this  kind  grow  as  a  rule  quickly  monotonous.  To  a 
man  of  Eugene's  turn  of  mind  there  was  so  little  in  Alexandria 
to  entertain  him.  After  London  and  Paris,  Chicago  and  New 
York,  the  quiet  streets  of  his  old  home  town  were  a  joke.  He 


THE  ''GENIUS''  271 

visited  the  office  of  the  Appeal  but  both  Jonas  Lyle  and  Caleb 
Williams  had  gone,  the  former  to  St.  Louis,  the  latter  to  Bloom- 
ington.  Old  Benjamin  Burgess,  his  sister's  husband's  father, 
was  unchanged  except  in  the  matter  of  years.  He  told  Eugene 
that  he  was  thinking  of  running  for  Congress  in  the  next 
campaign — the  Republican  organization  owed  it  to  him.  His 
son  Henry,  Sylvia's  husband,  had  become  a  treasurer  of  the 
local  bank.  He  was  working  as  patiently  and  quietly  as  ever, 
going  to  church  Sundays,  going  to  Chicago  occasionally  on 
business,  consulting  with  farmers  and  business  men  about  small 
loans.  He  was  a  close  student  of  the  several  banking  journals 
of  the  country,  and  seemed  to  be  doing  very  well  financially. 
Sylvia  had  little  to  say  of  how  he  was  getting  along.  Having 
lived  with  him  for  eleven  years,  she  had  become  somewhat  close- 
mouthed  like  himself.  Eugene  could  not  help  smiling  at  the 
lean,  slippered  subtlety  of  the  man,  young  as  he  was.  He  was 
so  quiet,  so  conservative,  so  intent  on  all  the  little  things  which 
make  a  conventionally  successful  life.  Like  a  cabinet  maker, 
he  was  busy  inlaying  the  little  pieces  which  would  eventually 
make  the  perfect  whole. 

Angela  took  up  the  household  work,  which  Mrs.  Witla 
grudgingly  consented  to  share  with  her,  with  a  will.  She 
liked  to  work  and  would  put  the  house  in  order  while  Mrs. 
Witla  was  washing  the  dishes  after  breakfast.  She  would 
make  special  pies  and  cakes  for  Eugene  when  she  could  without 
giving  offense,  and  she  tried  to  conduct  herself  so  that  Mrs. 
Witla  would  like  her.  She  did  not  think  so  much  of  the  Witla 
household.  It  wasn't  so  much  better  than  her  own — hardly 
as  good.  Still  it  was  Eugene's  birthplace  and  for  that  reason 
important.  There  was  a  slight  divergence  of  view-point  though, 
between  his  mother  and  herself,  over  the  nature  of  life  and 
how  to  live  it.  Mrs.  Witla  was  of  an  easier,  more  friendly 
outlook  on  life  than  Angela.  She  liked  to  take  things  as  they 
came  without  much  worry,  while  Angela  was  of  a  naturally 
worrying  disposition.  The  two  had  one  very  human  failing 
in  common — they  could  not  work  with  anyone  else  at  any- 
thing. Each  preferred  to  do  all  that  was  to  be  done  rather 
than  share  it  at  all.  Both  being  so  anxious  to  be  conciliatory 
for  Eugene's  sake  and  for  permanent  peace  in  the  family,  there 
was  small  chance  for  any  disagreement,  for  neither  was  without 
tact.  But  there  was  just  a  vague  hint  of  something  in  the  air — 
that  Angela  was  a  little  hard  and  selfish,  on  Mrs.  Witla's  part; 
that  Mrs.  Witla  was  just  the  least  bit  secretive,  or  shy  or 
distant — from  Angela's  point  of  view.  All  was  serene  and 


272  THE   "GENIUS" 

lovely  on  the  surface,  however,  with  many  won't-you-let-me's 
and  please-do-now's  on  both  sides.  Mrs.  Witla,  being  so  much 
older,  was,  of  course,  calmer  and  in  the  family  seat  of  dignity 
and  peace. 

To  be  able  to  sit  about  in  a  chair,  lie  in  a  hammock,  stroll  in 
the  woods  and  country  fields  and  be  perfectly  happy  in  idle 
contemplation  and  loneliness,  requires  an  exceptional  talent  for 
just  that  sort  of  thing.  Eugene  once  fancied  he  had  it,  as  did  his 
parents,  but  since  he  had  heard  the  call  of  fame  he  could  never 
be  still  any  more.  And  just  at  this  time  he  was  not  in  need 
of  solitude  and  idle  contemplation  but  of  diversion  and  entertain- 
ment. He  needed  companionship  of  the  right  sort,  gayety, 
sympathy,  enthusiasm.  Angela  had  some  of  this,  when  she  was 
not  troubled  about  anything,  his  parents,  his  sister,  his  old  ac- 
quaintances had  a  little  more  to  offer.  They  could  not,  however, 
be  forever  talking  to  him  or  paying  him  attention,  and  beyond 
them  there  was  nothing.  The  town  had  no  resources.  Eugene 
would  wTalk  the  long  country  roads  with  Angela  or  go  boating 
or  fishing  sometimes,  but  still  he  was  lonely.  He  would  sit  on 
the  porch  or  in  the  hammock  and  think  of  what  he  had  seen 
in  London  and  Paris — how  he  might  be  at  work.  St.  Paul's 
in  a  mist,  the  Thames  Embankment,  Piccadilly,  Blackfriars 
Bridge,  the  muck  of  Whitechapel  and  the  East  End — how  he 
wished  he  was  out  of  all  this  and  painting  them.  If  he  could 
only  paint.  He  rigged  up  a  studio  in  his  father's  barn,  using  a 
north  loft  door  for  light  and  essayed  certain  things  from  mem- 
ory, but  there  was  no  making  anything  come  out  right.  He 
had  this  fixed  belief,  which  was  a  notion  purely,  that  there  was 
always  something  wrong.  Angela,  his  mother,  his  father,  whom 
he  occasionally  asked  for  an  opinion,  might  protest  that  it  was 
beautiful  or  wonderful,  but  he  did  not  believe  it.  After  a  few 
altering  ideas  of  this  kind,  under  the  influences  of  which  he 
would  change  and  change  and  change  things,  he  would  find 
himself  becoming  wild  in  his  feelings,  enraged  at  his  condition, 
intensely  despondent  and  sorry  for  himself. 

"Well,"  he  would  say,  throwing  down  his  brush,  "I  shall 
simply  have  to  wait  until  I  come  out  of  this.  I  can't  do  any- 
thing this  way."  Then  he  would  walk  or  read  or  row  on  the 
lakes  or  play  solitaire,  or  listen  to  Angela  playing  on  the  piano 
that  his  father  had  installed  for  Myrtle  long  since.  All  the  time 
though  he  was  thinking  of  his  condition,  what  he  \vas  missing, 
how  the  gay  world  was  surging  on  rapidly  elsewhere,  how  long 
it  would  be  before  he  got  well,  if  ever.  He  talked  of  going  to 
Chicago  and  trying  his  hand  at  scenes  there,  but  Angela  per- 


THE   '"  GENIUS  "  273 

suaded  him  to  rest  for  a  while  longer.  In  June  she  promised 
him  they  would  go  to  Blackwood  for  the  summer,  coming  back 
here  in  the  fall  if  he  wished,  or  going  on  to  New  York  or 
staying  in  Chicago,  just  as  he  felt  about  it.  Now  he  needed  rest. 

"Eugene  will  probably  be  all  right  by  then,"  Angela  volun- 
teered to  his  mother,  "and  he  can  make  up  his  mind  whether  he. 
wants  to  go  to  Chicago  or  London." 

She  was  very  proud  of  her  ability  to  talk  of  where  they 
would  go  and  what  they  would  do. 


CHAPTER   XIII 

IF  it  had  not  been  for  the  lurking  hope  of  some  fresh  exciting 
experience  with  a  woman,  he  would  have  been  unconscion- 
ably lonely.  As  it  was,  this  thought  with  him — quite  as  the  con- 
firmed drunkard's  thought  of  whiskey — buoyed  him  up,  kept 
him  from  despairing  utterly,  gave  his  mind  the  only  diversion  it 
had  from  the  ever  present  thought  of  failure.  If  by  chance  he 
sho'uld  meet  some  truly  beautiful  girl,  gay,  enticing,  who  would 
fall  in  love  with  him!  that  would  be  happiness.  Only,  Angela 
was  constantly  watching  him  these  days  and,  besides,  more 
girls  would  simply  mean  that  his  condition  would  be  aggravated. 
Yet  so  powerful  was  the  illusion  of  desire,  the  sheer  animal 
magnetism  of  beauty,  that  when  it  came  near  him  in  the  form  of  a 
lovely  girl  of  his  own  temperamental  inclinations  he  could  not 
resist  it.  One  look  into  an  inviting  eye,  one  glance  at  a  face 
whose  outlines  were  soft  and  delicate — full  of  that  subtle  sug- 
gestion of  youth  and  health  which  is  so  characteristic  of  girl- 
hood— and  the  spell  was  cast.  It  was  as  though  the  very  form  of 
the  face,  without  will  or  intention  on  the  part  of  the  possessor, 
acted  hypnotically  upon  its  beholder.  The  Arabians  believed 
in  the  magic  power  of  the  word  Abracadabra  to  cast  a  spell. 
For  Eugene  the  form  of  a  woman's  face  and  body  was  quite 
as  powerful. 

While  he  and  Angela  were  in  Alexandria  from  February  to 
May,  he  met  one  night  at  his  sister's  house  a  girl  who,  from  the 
point  of  view  of  the  beauty  which  he  admired  and  to  which 
he  was  so  susceptible,  was  extremely  hypnotic,  and  who  for 
the  ease  and  convenience  of  a  flirtation  was  very  favorably 
situated.  She  was  the  daughter  of  a  traveling  man,  George 
Roth  by  name,  whose  wife,  the  child's  mother,  was  dead,  but 
who  lived  with  his  sister  in  an  old  tree-shaded  house  on  the  edge 
of  Green  Lake  not  far  from  the  spot  where  Eugene  had  once 
attempted  to  caress  his  first  love,  Stella  Appleton.  Frieda 
was  the  girl's  name.  She  was  extremely  attractive,  not  more  than 
eighteen  years  of  age,  with  large,  clear,  blue  eyes,  a  wealth  of 
yellowish-brown  hair  and  a  plump  but  shapely  figure.  She  was 
a  graduate  of  the  local  high  school,  well  developed  for  her 
years,  bright,  rosy-cheeked,  vivacious  and  with  a  great  deal  of 
natural  intelligence  which  attracted  the  attention  of  Eugene 
at  once.  Normally  he  was  extremely  fond  of  a  natural,  cheer- 

274 


THE    "GENIUS"  275 

ful,  laughing  disposition.  In  his  present  state  he  was  ab- 
normally so.  This  girl  and  her  foster  mother  had  heard  of 
him  a  long  time  since  through  his  parents  and  his  sister,  whom 
they  knew  well  and  whom  they  visited  frequently.  George 
Roth  had  moved  here  since  Eugene  had  first  left  for  Chicago, 
and  because  he  was  so  much  on  the  road  he  had  not  seen  him  since. 
Frieda,  on  all  his  previous  visits,  had  been  too  young  to  take 
an  interest  in  men,  but  now  at  this  age,  when  she  was  just 
blossoming  into  womanhood,  her  mind  was  fixed  on  them.  She 
did  not  expect  to  be  interested  in  Eugene  because  she  knew 
he  was  married,  but  because  of  his  reputation  as  an  artist  she 
was  curious  about  him.  Everybody  knew  who  he  was.  The  local 
papers  had  written  up  his  success  and  published  his  portrait. 
Frieda  expected  to  see  a  man  of  about  forty,  stern  and  sober. 
Instead  she  met  a  smiling  youth  of  twenty-nine,  rather  gaunt 
and  hollow-eyed,  but  none  the  less  attractive  for  that.  Eugene, 
with  Angela's  approval,  still  affected  a  loose,  flowing  tie,  a 
soft  turn-down  collar,  brown  corduroy  suits  as  a  rule,  the  coat 
cut  with  a  belt,  shooting  jacket  fashion,  a  black  iron  ring  of 
very  curious  design  upon  one  of  his  fingers,  and  a  soft  hat.  His 
hands  were  very  thin  and  white,  his  skin  pale.  Frieda,  rosy, 
as  thoughtless  as  a  butterfly,  charmingly  clothed  in  a  dress  of 
blue  linen,  laughing,  afraid  of  him  because  of  his  reputation, 
attracted  his  attention  at  once.  She  was  like  all  the  young, 
healthy,  laughing  girls  he  had  ever  known,  delightful.  He 
wished  he  were  single  again  that  he  might  fall  into  a  jesting 
conversation  with  her.  She  seemed  inclined  to  be  friendly  from 
the  first. 

Angela  being  present,  however,  and  Frieda's  foster  mother, 
it  was  necessary  for  him  to  be  circumspect  and  distant.  The 
latter,  Sylvia  and  Angela,  talked  of  art  and  listened  to  Angela's 
descriptions  of  Eugene's  eccentricities,  idiosyncrasies  and  experi- 
ences, which  were  a  never-failing  source  of  interest  to  the  com- 
mon run  of  mortals  whom  they  met.  Eugene  would  sit  by  in  a 
comfortable  chair  with  a  weary,  genial  or  indifferent  look  on 
his  face  as  his  mood  happened  to  be.  To-night  he  was  bored  and 
a  little  indifferent  in  his  manner.  No  one  here  interested  him 
save  this  girl,  the  beauty  of  whose  face  nourished  his  secret 
dreams.  He  longed  to  have  some  such  spirit  of  youth  near  him 
always.  Why  could  not  women-  remain  young  ? 

While  they  were  laughing  and  talking,  Eugene  picked  up  a 
copy  of  Howard  Pyle's  "Knights  of  the  Round  Table"  with 
its  warm  heavy  illustrations  of  the  Arthurian  heroes  and  heroines, 
and  began  to  study  the  stately  and  exaggerated  characteristics 


276  THE   "GENIUS" 

of  the  various  characters.  Sylvia  had  purchased  it  for  her 
seven-year  old  boy  Jack,  asleep  upstairs,  but  Frieda  had  read 
it  in  her  girlhood  a  few  years  before.  She  had  been  moving 
restlessly  about,  conscious  of  an  interest  in  Eugene  but  not 
knowing  how  to  find  an  opportunity  for  conversation.  His 
smile,  which  he  sometimes  directed  toward  her,  was  to  her 
entrancing. 

"Oh,  I  read  that,"  she  said,  when  she  saw  him  looking  at  it. 
She  had  drifted  to  a  position  not  far  behind  his  chair  and  near 
one  of  the  windows.  She  pretended  to  be  looking  out  at  first, 
but  now  began  to  talk  to  him.  "I  used  to  be  crazy  about 
every  one  of  the  Knights  and  Ladies — Sir  Launcelot,  Sir  Galahad, 
Sir  Tristram,  Sir  Gawaine,  Queen  Guinevere." 

"Did  you  ever  hear  of  Sir  Bluff?"  he  asked  teasingly,  "or 
Sir  Stuff?  or  Sir  Dub?"  He  looked  at  her  with  a  mocking 
light  of  humor  in  his  eyes. 

"Oh,  there  aren't  such  people,"  laughed  Frieda,  surprised 
at  the  titles  but  tickled  at  the  thought  of  them. 

"Don't  you  let  him  mock  you,  Frieda,"  put  in  Angela,  who  was 
pleased  at  the  girl's  gayety  and  glad  that  Eugene  had  found 
someone  in  whom  he  could  take  an  interest.  She  did  not  fear  the 
simple  Western  type  of  girl  like  Frieda  and  her  own  sister 
Marietta.  They  were  franker,  more  kindly,  better  intentioned 
than  the  Eastern  studio  type,  and  besides  they  did  not  consider 
themselves  superior.  She  was  playing  the  role  of  the  condescend- 
ing leader  here. 

"Certainly  there  are,"  replied  Eugene  solemnly,  addressing 
Frieda.  "They  are  the  new  Knights  of  the  Round  Table. 
Haven't  you  ever  heard  of  that  book?" 

"No,  I  haven't,"  answered  Frieda  gaily,  "and  there  isn't 
any  such.  You're  just  teasing  me." 

"Teasing  you?  Why  I  wouldn't  think  of  such  a  thing.  And 
there  is  such  a  book.  It's  published  by  Harper  and  Brothers 
and  is  called  'The  New  Knights  of  the  Round  Table.'  You 
simply  haven't  heard  of  it,  that's  all." 

Frieda  was  impressed.  She  didn't  know  whether  to  believe 
him  or  not.  She  opened  her  eyes  in  a  curiously  inquiring  girlish 
way  which  appealed  to  Eugene  strongly.  He  wished  he  were  free 
to  kiss  her  pretty,  red,  thoughtlessly-parted  lips.  Angela  herself 
was  faintly  doubtful  as  to  whether  he  was  speaking  of  a  real 
book  or  not. 

"Sir  Stuff  is  a  very  famous  Knight,"  he  went  on,  "and  so  is 
Sir  Bluff.  They're  inseparable  companions  in  the  book.  As 
for  Sir  Dub  and  Sir  Hack,  and  the  Lady  Dope — " 


THE   *  'GENIUS  "  277 

"Oh,  hush,  Eugene,"  called  Angela  gaily.  "Just  listen  to 
what  he's  telling  Frieda/1  she  remarked  to  Miss  Roth.  "You 
mustn't  mind  him  though.  He's  always  teasing  someone.  Why 
didn't  you  raise  him  better,  Sylvia?"  she  asked  of  Eugene's  sister. 

"Oh,  don't  ask  me.  We  never  could  do  anything  with 
Gene.  I  never  knew  he  had  much  jesting  in  him  until  he  came 
back  this  time." 

"They're  very  wonderful,"  they  heard  him  telling  Frieda,  "all 
fine  rosy  gentlemen  and  ladies." 

Frieda  was  impressed  by  this  charming,  good-natured  man. 
His  spirit  was  evidently  as  youthful  and  gay  as  her  own.  She 
sat  before  him  looking  into  his  smiling  eyes  while  he  teased  her 
about  this,  that  and  the  other  foible  of  youth.  Who  were 
her  sweethearts?  How  did  she  make  love?  How  many  boys 
lined  up  to  see  her  come  out  of  church  on  Sunday?  He  knew. 
"I'll  bet  they  look  like  a  line  of  soldiers  on  dress  parade,"  he 
volunteered,  "all  with  nice  new  ties  and  clean  pocket  handker- 
chiefs and  their  shoes  polished  and — 

"Oh,  ha!  ha!"  laughed  Frieda.  The  idea  appealed  to  her 
immensely.  She  started  giggling  and  bantering  with  him  and 
their  friendship  was  definitely  sealed.  She  thought  he  was 
delightful. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

THE  opportunity  for  further  meetings  seemed  to  come  about 
quite  naturally.  The  Witla  boathouse,  where  the  family 
kept  one  small  boat,  was  at  the  foot  of  the  Roth  lawn,  reached 
by  a  slightly  used  lane  which  came  down  that  side  of  the  house ; 
and  also  by  a  grape-arbor  which  concealed  the  lake  from  the 
lower  end  of  the  house  and  made  a  sheltered  walk  to  the  water- 
side, at  the  end  of  which  was  a  weather-beaten  wrooden  bench. 
Eugene  came  here  sometimes  to  get  the  boat  to  row  or  to  fish. 
On  several  occasions  Angela  had  accompanied  him,  but  she 
did  not  care  much  for  rowing  or  fishing  and  was  perfectly  willing 
that  he  should  go  alone  if  he  wanted  to.  There  was  also  the 
friendship  of  Miss  Roth  for  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Witla,  which  occa- 
sionally brought  her  and  Frieda  to  the  house.  And  Frieda  came 
from  time  to  time  to  his  studio  in  the  barn,  to  see  him  paint. 
Because  of  her  youth  and  innocence  Angela  thought  very  little  of 
her  presence  there,  which  struck  Eugene  as  extremely  fortunate. 
He  was  interested  in  her  charms,  anxious  to  make  love  to  her  in 
a  philandering  sort  of  way,  without  intending  to  do  her  any 
harm.  It  struck  him  as  a  little  curious  that  he  should  find  her 
living  so  near  the  spot  where  once  upon  a  winter's  night  he  had 
made  love  to  Stella.  There  was  something  not  unlike  Stella 
about  her,  though  she  was  softer,  more  whole  souledly  genial 
and  pliable  to  his  moods. 

He  saw  her  one  day,  when  he  went  for  his  boat,  standing  out 
in  the  yard,  and  she  came  down  to  the  waterside  to  greet  him. 

"Well,"  he  said,  smiling  at  her  fresh  morning  appearance,  and 
addressing  her  with  that  easy  familiarity  with  which  he  knew 
how  to  take  youth  and  life  generally,  "we're  looking  as  bright  as 
a  butterfly.  I  don't  suppose  we  butterflies  have  to  work  very 
hard,  do  we?" 

"Oh,  don't  we,"  replied  Frieda.    "That's  all  you  know." 

"Well,  I  don't  know,  that's  true,  but  perhaps  one  of  these 
butterflies  will  tell  me.  Now  you,  for  instance." 

Frieda  smiled.  She  scarcely  knew  how  to  take  him,  but  she 
thought  he  was  delightful.  She  hadn't  the  faintest  conception 
either  of  the  depth  and  subtlety  of  his  nature  or  of  the  genial, 
kindly  inconstancy  of  it.  She  only  saw  him  as  a  handsome, 
smiling  man,  not  at  all  too  old,  witty,  good-natured,  here  by 
the  bright  green  waters  of  this  lake,  pulling  out  his  boat.  He 

278 


THE   "GENIUS"  279 

looked  so  cheerful  to  her,  so  care  free.  She  had  him  indissolubly 
mixed  in  her  impressions  with  the  freshness  of  the  ground,  the 
newness  of  the  grass,  the  brightness  of  the  sky,  the  chirping 
of  the  birds  and  even  the  little  scintillating  ripples  on  the  water. 

"Butterflies  never  work,  that  I  know,"  he  said,  refusing  to 
take  her  seriously.  "They  just  dance  around  in  the  sunlight 
and  have  a  good  time.  Did  you  ever  talk  to  a  butterfly  about 
that?" 

Frieda  merely  smiled  at  him. 

He  pushed  his  boat  into  the  water,  holding  it  lightly  by  a 
rope,  got  down  a  pair  of  oars  from  a  rack  and  stepped  into  it. 
Then  he  stood  there  looking  at  her. 

"Have  you  lived  in  Alexandria  long?"  he  asked. 

"About  eight  years  now." 

"Do  you  like  it?" 

"Sometimes,  not  always.  I  wish  we  lived  in  Chicago.  O-oh !" 
she  sniffed,  turning  up  her  pretty  nose,  "isn't  that  lovely!"  She 
was  smelling  some  odor  of  flowers  blown  from  a  garden. 

"Yes,  I  get  it  too.  Geraniums,  isn't  it?  They're  blooming 
here,  I  see.  A  day  like  this  sets  me  crazy."  He  sat  down  in 
his  boat  and  put  his  oars  in  place. 

"Well,  I  have  to  go  and  try  my  luck  for  whales.  Wouldn't 
you  like  to  go  fishing?" 

"I  would,  all  right,"  said  Frieda,  "only  aunt  wouldn't  let  me,  I 
think.  I'd  just  love  to  go.  It's  lots  of  fun,  catching  fish." 

"Yes,  catching  fish,"  laughed  Eugene.  "Well,  I'll  bring  you 
a  nice  little  shark — one  that  bites.  Would  you  like  that? 
Down  in  the  Atlantic  Ocean  they  have  sharks  that  bite  and 
bark.  They  come  up  out  of  the  water  at  night  and  bark  like 
a  dog." 

"O-o-oh,  dear!  how  funny!"  giggled  Frieda,  and  Eugene  began 
slowly  rowing  his  boat  lakeward. 

"Be  sure  you  bring  me  a  nice  fish,"  she  called. 

"Be  sure  you're  here  to  get  it  when  I  come  back,"  he  answered. 

He  saw  her  with  the  lattice  of  spring  leaves  behind  her, 
the  old  house  showing  pleasantly  on  its  rise  of  ground,  some 
house-martens  turning  in  the  morning  sky. 

"What  a  lovely  girl,"  he  thought.  "She's  beautiful — as  fresh 
as  a  flower.  That  is  the  one  great  thing  in  the  world — the 
beauty  of  girlhood." 

He  came  back  after  a  time  expecting  to  find  her,  but  her 
foster-mother  had  sent  her  on  an  errand.  He  felt  a  keen  sense 
of  disappointment. 

There  were  other  meetings  after  this,  once  on  a  day  when  he 


a8o  THE   '"GENIUS" 

came  back  practically  fishless  and  she  laughed  at  him;  once 
when  he  saw  her  sunning  her  hair  on  the  back  porch  after  she 
had  washed  it  and  she  came  down  to  stand  under  the  trees  near 
the  water,  looking  like  a  naiad.  He  wished  then  he  could  take 
her  in  his  arms,  but  he  was  a  little  uncertain  of  her  and  of 
himself.  Once  she  came  to  his  studio  in  the  barn  to  bring  him 
a  piece  of  left-over  dough  which  his  mother  had  "turned"  on 
the  top  of  the  stove. 

"Eugene  used  to  be  crazy  about  that  when  he  was  a  boy,"  his 
mother  had  remarked. 

"Oh,  let  me  take  it  to  him,"  said  Frieda  gaily,  gleeful  over 
the  idea  of  the  adventure. 

"That's  a  good  idea,"  said  Angela  innocently.  "Wait,  I'll  put 
it  on  this  saucer." 

Frieda  took  it  and  ran.  She  found  Eugene  staring  oddly  at  his 
canvas,  his  face  curiously  dark.  When  her  head  came  above 
the  loft  floor  his  expression  changed  immediately.  His  guileless, 
kindly  smile  returned. 

"Guess  what,"  she  said,  pulling  a  little  white  apron  she 
had  on  over  the  dish. 

"Strawberries."    They  were  in  season. 

"Oh,  no." 

"Peaches  and  cream." 

"Where  would  we  get  peaches  now?" 

"At  the  grocery  store." 

"I'll  give  you  one  more  guess." 

"Angel  cake!"  He  was  fond  of  that,  and  Angela  occasion- 
ally made  it. 

"Your  guesses  are  all  gone.     You  can't  have  any." 

He  reached  out  his  hand,  but  she  drew  back.  He  followed 
and  she  laughed.  "No,  no,  you  can't  have  any  now." 

He  caught  her  soft  arm  and  drew  her  close  to  him.  "Sure 
I  can't?" 

Their  faces  were  close  together. 

She  looked  into  his  eyes  for  a  moment,  then  dropped  her 
lashes.  Eugene's  brain  swirled  with  the  sense  of  her  beauty. 
It  was  the  old  talisman.  He  covered  her  sweet  lips  with  his 
own  and  she  yielded  feverishly. 

"There  now,  eat  your  dough,"  she  exclaimed  when  he  let 
her  go,  pushing  it  shamefacedly  toward  him.  She  was  flustered 
— so  much  so  that  she  failed  to  jest  about  it.  "What  would 
Mrs.  Witla  think,"  she  added,  "if  she  could  see  us?" 

Eugene  paused  solemnly  and  listened.  He  was  afraid  of 
Angela. 


THE   ''GENIUS'  281 

"I've  always  liked  this  stuff,  ever  since  I  was  a  boy,"  he  said 
in  an  offhand  way. 

"So  your  mother  said,"  replied  Frieda,  somewhat  recovered. 
"Let  me  see  what  you're  painting."  She  came  round  to  his 
side  and  he  took  her  hand.  "Ill  have  to  go  now,"  she  said 
wisely.  "They'll  be  expecting  me  back." 

Eugene  speculated  on  the  intelligence  of  girls — at  least  on 
that  of  those  he  liked.  Somehow  they  were  all  wise  under 
these  circumstances — cautious.  He  could  see  that  instinctively 
Frieda  was  prepared  to  protect  him  and  herself.  She  did  not 
appear  to  be  suffering  from  any  shock  from  this  revelation. 
Rather  she  was  inclined  to  make  the  best  of  it. 

He  folded  her  in  his  arms  again. 

"You're  the  angel  cake  and  the  strawberries  and  the  peaches 
and  cream,"  he  said. 

"Don't!"  she  pleaded.     "Don't!     I  have  to  go  now." 

And  when  he  released  her  she  ran  quickly  down  the  stairs, 
giving  him  a  swift,  parting  smile. 

So  Frieda  was  added  to  the  list  of  his  conquests  and  he 
pondered  over  it  gravely.  If  Angela  could  have  seen  this  scene, 
what  a  storm  there  would  have  been!  If  she  ever  became  con- 
scious of  what  was  going  on,  what  a  period  of  wrath  there 
would  be!  It  would  be  terrible.  After  her  recent  discovery 
of  his  letters  he  hated  to  think  of  that.  Still  this  bliss  of 
caressing  youth — was  it  not  worth  any  price?  To  have  a  bright, 
joyous  girl  of  eighteen  put  her  arms  about  you — could  you  risk 
too  much  for  it?  The  world  said  one  life,  one  love.  Could  he 
accede  to  that?  Could  any  one  woman  satisfy  him?  Could 
Frieda  if  he  had  her?  He  did  not  know.  He  did  not  care 
to  think  about  it.  Only  this  walking  in  a  garden  of  flowers — 
how  delicious  it  was.  This  having  a  rose  to  your  lips! 

Angela  saw  nothing  of  this  attraction  for  some  time.  She 
was  not  prepared  yet  to  believe,  poor  little  depender  on  the 
conventions  as  she  understood  them,  that  the  world  was  full 
of  plots  and  counter-plots,  snares,  pitfalls  and  gins.  The 
way  of  the  faithful  and  well-meaning  woman  in  marriage  should 
be  simple  and  easy.  She  should  not  be  harassed  by  uncertainty 
of  affection,  infelicities  of  temper,  indifference  or  infidelity.  If 
she  worked  hard,  as  Angela  was  trying  to  do,  trying  to  be  a 
good  wife,  saving,  serving,  making  a  sacrifice  of  her  time  and 
services  and  moods  and  wishes  for  her  husband's  sake,  why 
shouldn't  he  do  the  same  for  her?  She  knew  of  no  double 
standard  of  virtue.  If  she  had  she  would  not  have  believed  in 
it.  Her  parents  had  raised  her  to  see  marriage  in  a  different 


282  THE    "GENIUS" 

light.  Her  father  was  faithful  to  her  mother.  Eugene's  father 
was  faithful  to  his  wife — that  was  perfectly  plain.  Her  brothers- 
in-law  were  faithful  to  her  sisters,  Eugene's  brothers-in-law 
were  faithful  to  his  sisters.  Why  should  not  Eugene  be  faithful 
to  her? 

So  far,  of  course,  she  had  no  evidence  to  the  contrary.  He 
probably  wTas  faithful  and  would  remain  so.  He  had  said  so, 
but  this  pre-matrimonial  philandering  of  his  looked  very  curious. 
It  was  an  astonishing  thing  that  he  could  have  deceived  her 
so.  She  would  never  forget  it.  He  was  a  genius  to  be  sure. 
The  world  was  waiting  to  hear  what  he  had  to  say.  He  was 
a  great  man  and  should  associate  with  great  men,  or,  failing 
that,  should  not  want  to  associate  with  anyone  at  all.  It  was 
ridiculous  for  him  to  be  running  around  after  silly  women.  She 
thought  of  this  and  decided  to  do  her  best  to  prevent  it.  The 
seat  of  the  mighty  was  in  her  estimation  the  place  for  Eugene, 
with  her  in  the  foreground  as  a  faithful  and  conspicuous  acolyte, 
swinging  the  censer  of  praise  and  delight. 

The  days  went  on  and  various  little  meetings — some  acci- 
dental, some  premeditated — took  place  between  Eugene  and 
Frieda.  There  was  one  afternoon  when  he  was  at  his  sister's 
and  she  came  there  to  get  a  pattern  for  her  foster-mother  from 
Sylvia.  She  lingered  for  over  an  hour,  during  which  time 
Eugene  had  opportunities  to  kiss  her  a  dozen  times.  The  beauty 
of  her  eyes  and  her  smile  haunted  him  after  she  was  gone.  There 
was  another  time  when  he  saw  her  at  dusk  near  his  boathouse, 
and  kissed  her  in  the  shadow  of  the  sheltering  grape-arbor.  In 
his  own  home  there  were  clandestine  moments  and  in  his  studio, 
the  barn  loft,  for  Frieda  made  occasion  a  few  times  to  come 
to  him — a  promise  to  make  a  sketch  of  her  being  the  excuse. 
Angela  resented  this,  but  she  could  not  prevent  it.  In  the  main 
Frieda  exhibited  that  curious  patience  in  love  which  women  so 
customarily  exhibit  and  which  a  man  can  never  understand. 
She  could  wait  for  her  own  to  come  to  her — for  him  to  find 
her;  while  he,  with  that  curious  avidness  of  the  male  in  love, 
burned  as  a  fed  fire  to  see  her.  He  was  jealous  of  the  little 
innocent  walks  she  took  with  boys  she  knew.  The  fact  that 
it  was  necessary  for  her  to  be  away  from  him  was  a  great 
deprivation.  The  fact  that  he  was  married  to  Angela  was  a 
horrible  disaster.  He  would  look  at  Angela,  when  she  was  with 
him,  preventing  him  from  his  freedom  in  love,  with  almost 
calculated  hate  in  his  eyes.  Why  had  he  married  her?  As  for 
Frieda,  when  she  was  near,  and  he  could  not  draw  near  her, 


THE    "GENIUS"  283 

his  eyes  followed  her  movements  with  a  yearning,  devouring 
glance.  He  was  fairly  beside  himself  with  anguish  under  the 
spell  of  her  beauty.  Frieda  had  no  notion  of  the  consuming 
flame  she  had  engendered. 

It  was  a  simple  thing  to  walk  home  with  her  from  the  post- 
office — quite  accidentally  on  several  occasions.  It  was  a  for- 
tuitous thing  that  Anna  Roth  should  invite  Angela  and  himself, 
as  well  as  his  father  and  mother,  to  her  house  to  dinner.  On 
one  occasion  when  Frieda  was  visiting  at  the  Witla  homestead, 
Angela  thought  Frieda  stepped  away  from  Eugene  in  a  curiously 
disturbed  manner  when  she  came  into  the  parlor.  She  was 
not  sure.  Frieda  hung  round  him  in  a  good-natured  way  most 
of  the  time  when  various  members  of  the  family  were  present. 
She  wondered  if  by  any  chance  he  was  making  love  to  her, 
but  she  could  not  prove  it.  She  tried  to  watch  them  from  then 
on,  but  Eugene  was  so  subtle,  Frieda  so  circumspect,  that  she 
never  did  obtain  any  direct  testimony.  Nevertheless,  before  they 
left  Alexandria  there  was  a  weeping  scene  over  this,  hysterical, 
tempestuous,  in  which  she  accused  him  of  making  love  to  Frieda, 
he  denying  it  stoutly. 

"If  it  wasn't  for  your  relatives'  sake,"  she  declared,  "I  would 
accuse  her  to  her  face,  here  before  your  eyes.  She  couldn't 
dare  deny  it." 

"Oh,  you're  crazy,"  said  Eugene.  "You're  the  most  sus- 
picious woman  I  ever  knew.  Good  Lord!  Can't  I  look  at  a 
woman  any  more?  This  little  girl!  Can't  I  even  be  nice  to 
her?" 

"Nice  to  her?  Nice  to  her?  I  know  how  you're  nice  to  her. 
I  can  see!  I  can  feel!  Oh,  God!  Why  can't  you  give  me  a 
faithful  husband!" 

"Oh,  cut  it  out!"  demanded  Eugene  defiantly.  "You're  al- 
ways watching.  I  can't  turn  around  but  you  have  your  eye 
on  me.  I  can  tell.  Well,  you  go  ahead  and  watch.  That's  all 
the  good  it  will  do  you.  I'll  give  you  some  real  reason  for 
watching  one  of  these  days.  You  make  me  tired!" 

"Oh,  hear  how  he  talks  to  me,"  moaned  Angela,  "and  we're 
only  married  one  year!  Oh,  Eugene,  how  can  you?  Have  you 
no  pity,  no  shame?  Here  in  your  own  home,  too!  Oh!  oh! 
oh!" 

To  Eugene  such  hysterics  were  maddening.  He  could  not 
understand  how  anyone  should  want  or  find  it  possible  to  carry 
on  in  this  fashion.  He  was  lying  "out  of  the  whole  cloth" 
about  Frieda,  but  Angela  didn't  know  and  he  knew  she  didn't 


284  THE   "GENIUS" 

know.  All  these  tantrums  were  based  on  suspicion.  If  she 
would  do  this  on  a  mere  suspicion,  what  would  she  not  do  when 
she  had  a  proved  cause  ? 

Still  by  her  tears  she  as  yet  had  the  power  of  rousing  his 
sympathies  and  awakening  his  sense  of  shame.  Her  sorrow 
made  him  slightly  ashamed  of  his  conduct  or  rather  sorry,  for 
the  tougher  nature  was  constantly  presenting  itself.  Her  sus- 
picions made  the  further  pursuit  of  this  love  quest  practically 
impossible.  Secretly  he  already  cursed  the  day  he  had  married 
her,  for  Frieda's  face  was  ever  before  him,  a  haunting  lure 
to  love  and  desire.  In  this  hour  life  looked  terribly  sad  to  him. 
He  couldn't  help  feeling  that  all  the  perfect  things  one  might 
seek  or  find  were  doomed  to  the  searing  breath  of  an  inimical 
fate.  Ashes  of  roses — that  was  all  life  had  to  offer.  Dead 
sea  fruit,  turning  to  ashes  upon  the  lips.  Oh,  Frieda!  Frieda! 
Oh,  youth,  youth !  That  there  should  dance  before  him  for  ever- 
more an  unattainable  desire — the  holy  grail  of  beauty.  Oh  life, 
oh  death!  Which  was  really  better,  waking  or  sleeping?  If 
he  could  only  have  Frieda  now  it  would  be  worth  living,  but 
without  her — 


CHAPTER  XV 

THE  weakness  of  Eugene  was  that  he  was  prone  in  each 
of  these  new  conquests  to  see  for  the  time  being  the  sum 
and  substance  of  bliss,  to  rise  rapidly  in  the  scale  of  uncon- 
trollable, exaggerated  affection,  until  he  felt  that  here  and 
nowhere  else,  now  and  in  this  particular  form  was  ideal  happi- 
ness. He  had  been  in  love  with  Stella,  with  Margaret,  with 
Ruby,  with  Angela,  with  Christina,  and  now  with  Frieda,  quite 
in  this  way,  and  it  had  taught  him  nothing  as  yet  concerning 
love  except  that  it  was  utterly  delightful.  He  wondered  at 
times  how  it  was  that  the  formation  of  a  particular  face  could 
work  this  spell.  There  was  plain  magic  in  the  curl  of  a  lock  of 
hair,  the  whiteness  or  roundness  of  a  forehead,  the  shapeliness 
of  a  nose  or  ear,  the  arched  redness  of  full-blown  petal  lips. 
The  cheek,  the  chin,  the  eye — in  combination  with  these  things 
— how  did  they  work  this  witchery?  The  tragedies  to  which 
he  laid  himself  open  by  yielding  to  these  spells — he  never  stopped 
to  think  of  them. 

It  is  a  question  whether  the  human  will,  of  itself  alone,  ever 
has  cured  or  ever  can  cure  any  human  weakness.  Tendencies 
are  subtle  things.  They  are  involved  in  the  chemistry  of  one's 
being,  and  those  who  delve  in  the  mysteries  of  biology  fre- 
quently find  that  curious  anomaly,  a  form  of  minute  animal  life 
born  to  be  the  prey  of  another  form  of  animal  life — chemically 
and  physically  attracted  to  its  own  disaster.  Thus,  to  quote 
Calkins,  "some  protozoa  are  apparently  limited  to  special  kinds 
of  food.  The  'slipper-animal*  (Paramecium)  and  the  'bell- 
animal'  (Vorticella)  live  on  certain  kinds  of  bacteria,  and 
many  others,  which  live  upon  smaller  protozoa,  seem  to  have  a 
marked  affinity  for  certain  kinds.  I  have  watched  one  of  these 
creatures  (Actinobolus)  lie  perfectly  quiet  while  hundreds  of 
bacteria  and  smaller  kinds  of  protozoa  bumped  against  it,  until 
a  certain  variety  (Halteria  grandinella)  came  near,  when  a 
minute  dart,  or  'trochocyst/  attached  to  a  relatively  long  thread, 
was  launched.  The  victim  was  invariably  hit,  and  after  a 
short  struggle  was  drawn  in  and  devoured.  The  results  of 
many  experiments  indicate  that  the  apparently  willful  selection 
in  these  cases  is  the  inevitable  action  of  definite  chemical  and 
physical  laws  which  the  individual  organism  can  no  more 
change  than  it  can  change  the  course  of  gravitation.  The 

285 


286  THE   "GENIUS" 

killing  dart  mentioned  above  is  called  out  by  the  particular  kind 
of  prey  with  the  irresistible  attraction  of  an  iron  filing  for  a 
magnet." 

Eugene  did  not  know  of  these  curious  biologic  experiments 
at  this  time,  but  he  suspected  that  these  attractions  were  deeper 
than  human  will.  He  thought  at  times  that  he  ought  to  resist 
his  impulses.  At  other  times  he  asked  himself  why.  If  his 
treasure  was  in  this  and  he  lost  it  by  resistance,  what  had  he? 
A  sense  of  personal  purity?  It  did  not  appeal  to  him.  The 
respect  of  his  fellow-citizens?  He  believed  that  most  of  his 
fellow-citizens  were  whited  sepulchres.  What  good  did  their 
hypocritical  respect  do  him?  Justice  to  others?  Others  were 
not  concerned,  or  should  not  be  in  the  natural  affinity  which 
might  manifest  itself  between  two  people.  That  was  for  them 
to  settle.  Besides,  there  was  very  little  justice  in  the  world. 
As  for  his  wife — well,  he  had  given  her  his  word,  but  he  had  not 
done  so  willingly.  Might  one  swear  eternal  fealty  and  abide 
by  it  when  the  very  essence  of  nature  was  lack  of  fealty,  in- 
considerateness,  destruction,  change?  A  gloomy  Hamlet  to  be 
sure,  asking  "can  honor  set  a  leg?" — a  subtle  Machiavelli  be- 
lieving that  might  made  right,  sure  that  it  was  a  matter  of 
careful  planning,  not  ethics  which  brought  success  in  this  world, 
and  yet  one  of  the  poorest  planners  in  it.  An  anarchistic  mani- 
festation of  selfishness  surely;  but  his  additional  plea  was  that  he 
did  not  make  his  own  mind,  nor  his  emotions,  nor  anything 
else.  And  wrorst  of  all,  he  counselled  himself  that  he  was  not 
seizing  anything  ruthlessly.  He  was  merely  accepting  that 
which  was  thrust  temptingly  before  him  by  fate. 

Hypnotic  spells  of  this  character  like  contagion  and  fever 
have  their  period  of  duration,  their  beginning,  climax  and  end. 
It  is  written  that  love  is  deathless,  but  this  was  not  written 
of  the  body  nor  does  it  concern  the  fevers  of  desire.  The 
marriage  of  true  minds  to  which  Shakespeare  would  admit  no 
impediment  is  of  a  different  texture  and  has  little  sex  in  it. 
The  friendship  of  Damon  and  Pythias  was  a  marriage  in  the 
best  sense,  though  it  concerned  two  men.  The  possibilities  of 
intellectual  union  between  a  man  and  a  woman  are  quite  the 
same.  This  is  deathless  in  so  far  as  it  reflects  the  spiritual 
ideals  of  the  universe — not  more  so.  All  else  is  illusion  of  short 
duration  and  vanishes  in  thin  air. 

When  the  time  came  for  Eugene  to  leave  Alexandria  as  he 
had  originally  wanted  to  do,  he  was  not  at  all  anxious  to 
depart;  rather  it  was  an  occasion  of  great  suffering  for  him. 
He  could  not  see  any  solution  to  the  problem  which  con- 


THE   "GENIUS"  287 

fronted  him  in  connection  with  Frieda's  love  for  him.  As  a 
matter  of  fact,  when  he  thought  about  it  at  all  he  was  quite 
sure  that  she  did  not  understand  or  appreciate  the  nature  of 
her  affection  for  him  or  his  for  her.  It  had  no  basis  in  respon- 
sibility. It  was  one  of  those  things  born  of  thin  air — sunlight, 
bright  waters,  the  reflection  of  a  bright  room — things  which 
are  intangible  and  insubstantial.  Eugene  was  not  one  who, 
if  he  thought  anything  at  all  about  it,  would  persuade  a  girl 
to  immorality  for  the  mere  sake  of  indulgence.  His  feelings 
were  invariably  compounded  of  finer  things,  love  of  companion- 
ship, love  of  beauty,  a  variable  sense  of  the  consequences  which 
must  ensue,  not  so  much  to  him  as  to  her,  though  he  took 
himself  into  consideration.  If  she  were  not  already  experienced 
and  he  had  no  method  of  protecting  her,  if  he  could  not  take  her 
as  his  wife  or  give  her  the  advantages  of  his  presence  and  finan- 
cial support,  secretly  or  openly,  if  he  could  not  keep  all  their 
transactions  a  secret  from  the  world,  he  was  inclined  to  hesitate. 
He  did  not  want  to  do  anything  rash — as  much  for  her  sake 
as  for  his.  In  this  case,  the  fact  that  he  could  not  marry  her, 
that  he  could  not  reasonably  run  away  with  her,  seeing  that  he 
was  mentally  sick  and  of  uncertain  financial  condition,  the  fact 
that  he  was  surrounded  by  home  conditions  which  made  it  of 
the  greatest  importance  that  he  should  conduct  himself  cir- 
cumspectly, weighed  greatly  with  him.  Nevertheless  a  tragedy 
could  easily  have  resulted  here.  If  Frieda  had  been  of  a  head- 
strong, unthinking  nature;  if  Angela  had  been  less  watchful, 
morbid,  appealing  in  her  mood;  if  the  family  and  town  con- 
ditions had  been  less  weighty;  if  Eugene  had  had  health  and 
ample  means,  he  would  probably  have  deserted  Angela,  taken 
Frieda  to  some  European  city — he  dreamed  of  Paris  in  this 
connection — and  found  himself  confronted  later  by  an  angry 
father  or  a  growing  realization  that  Frieda's  personal  charms 
were  not  the  sum  and  substance  of  his  existence,  or  both. 
George  Roth,  for  all  he  was  a  traveling  salesman,  was  a  man 
of  considerable  determination.  He  might  readily  have  ended 
the  life  of  his  daughter's  betrayer — art  reputation  or  no.  He 
worshiped  Frieda  as  the  living  image  of  his  dead  wife,  and  at 
best  he  would  have  been  heartbroken. 

As  it  was,  there  was  not  much  chance  of  this,  for  Eugene 
was  not  rash.  He  was  too  philosophic.  Conditions  might  have 
arisen  in  which  he  would  have  shown  the  most  foolhardy 
bravado,  but  not  in  his  present  state.  There  was  not  sufficient 
anguish  in  his  own  existence  to  drive  him  to  action.  He  saw 
no  clear  way.  So,  in  June,  with  Angela  he  took  his  departure 


288  THE   "GENIUS" 

for  Blackwood,  pretending,  to  her,  outward  indifference  as  to  his 
departure,  but  inwardly  feeling  as  though  his  whole  life  were 
coming  to  nothing. 

When  he  reached  Blackwood  he  was  now,  naturally,  disgusted 
with  the  whole  atmosphere  of  it.  Frieda  was  not  there.  Alex- 
andria, from  having  been  the  most  wearisome  sidepool  of  aimless 
inactivity,  had  suddenly  taken  on  all  the  characteristics  of 
paradise.  The  little  lakes,  the  quiet  streets,  the  court  house 
square,  his  sister's  home,  Frieda's  home,  his  own  home,  had 
been  once  more  invested  for  him  with  the  radiance  of  romance 
— that  intangible  glory  of  feeling  which  can  have  no  existence 
outside  the  illusion  of  love.  Frieda's  face  was  everywhere  in 
it,  her  form,  the  look  of  her  eyes.  He  could  see  nothing  there 
now  save  the  glory  of  Frieda.  It  was  as  though  the  hard,  weary 
face  of  a  barren  landscape  were  suddenly  bathed  in  the  soft 
effulgence  of  a  midnight  moon. 

As  for  Blackwood,  it  was  as  lovely  as  ever  but  he  could  not 
see  it.  The  fact  that  his  attitude  had  changed  toward  Angela 
for  the  time  being  made  all  the  difference.  He  did  not  really 
hate  her — he  told  himself  that.  She  was  not  any  different  from 
that  she  had  been,  that  was  perfectly  plain.  The  difference 
was  in  him.  He  really  could  not  be  madly  in  love  with  two 
people  at  once.  He  had  entertained  joint  affections  for  Angela 
and  Ruby,  and  Angela  and  Christina,  but  those  were  not 
the  dominating  fevers  which  this  seemed  to  be.  He  could  not 
for  the  time  get  the  face  of  this  girl  out  of  his  mind.  He 
was  sorry  for  Angela  at  moments.  Then,  because  of  her  in- 
sistence on  his  presence  with  her — on  her  being  in  his  company, 
"following  him  around"  as  he  put  it,  he  hated  her.  Dear 
Heaven!  if  he  could  only  be  free  without  injuring  her.  If  he 
could  only  get  loose.  Think,  at  this  moment  he  might  be  with 
Frieda  walking  in  the  sun  somewhere,  rowing  on  the  lake  at 
Alexandria,  holding  her  in  his  arms.  He  would  never  forget 
how  she  looked  the  first  morning  she  came  into  his  barn  studio 
at  home — how  enticing  she  was  the  first  night  he  saw  her  at 
Sylvia's.  What  a  rotten  mess  living  was,  anyhow.  And  so  he 
sat  about  in  the  hammock  at  the  Blue  homestead,  or  swung 
in  a  swing  that  old  Jotham  had  since  put  up  for  Marietta's 
beaux,  or  dreamed  in  a  chair  in  the  shade  of  the  house,  reading. 
He  was  dreary  and  lonely  with  just  one  ambition  in  the  world 
— Frieda. 

Meanwhile,  as  might  be  expected,  his  health  was  not  getting 
any  better.  Instead  of  curing  himself  of  those  purely  carnal 
expressions  of  passion  which  characterized  his  life  with  Angela, 


THE    "GENIUS'1  289 

the  latter  went  on  unbroken.  One  would  have  thought  that  his 
passion  for  Frieda  would  have  interrupted  this,  but  the  presence 
of  Angela,  the  comparatively  enforced  contact,  her  insistence  on 
his  attentions,  broke  down  again  and  again  the  protecting  barrier 
of  distaste.  Had  he  been  alone,  he  would  have  led  a  chaste 
life  until  some  new  and  available  infatuation  seized  him.  As 
it  was  there  was  no  refuge  either  from  himself  or  Angela,  and 
the  at  times  almost  nauseating  relationship  went  on  and  on. 

Those  of  the  Blue  family,  who  were  in  the  home  or  near  it, 
were  delighted  to  see  him.  The  fact  that  he  had  achieved  such 
a  great  success,  as  the  papers  had  reported,  with  his  first  ex- 
hibition and  had  not  lost  ground  with  the  second — a  very  in- 
teresting letter  had  come  from  M.  Charles  saying  that  the 
Paris  pictures  would  be  shown  in  Paris  in  July — gave  them  a 
great  estimate  of  him.  Angela  was  a  veritable  queen  in  this 
home  atmosphere;  and  as  for  Eugene,  he  was  given  the  privilege 
of  all  geniuses  to  do  as  he  pleased.  On  this  occasion 
Eugene  was  the  centre  of  interest,  though  he  appeared  not  to 
be,  for  his  four  solid  Western  brothers-in-law  gave  no  indica- 
tion that  they  thought  he  was  unusual.  He  was  not  their  type — 
banker,  lawyer,  grain  merchant  and  real  estate  dealer — but  they 
felt  proud  of  him  just  the  same.  He  was  different,  and  at  the 
same  time  natural,  genial,  modest,  inclined  to  appear  far  more 
interested  in  their  affairs  than  he  really  was.  He  would  listen 
by  the  hour  to  the  details  of  their  affairs,  political,  financial, 
agricultural,  social.  The  world  was  a  curious  compost  to 
Eugene  and  he  was  always  anxious  to  find  out  how  other 
people  lived.  He  loved  a  good  story,  and  while  he  rarely  told 
one  he  made  a  splendid  audience  for  those  who  did.  His  eyes 
would  sparkle  and  his  whole  face  light  with  the  joy  of  the 
humor  he  felt. 

Through  all  this — the  attention  he  was  receiving,  the  welcome 
he  was  made  to  feel,  the  fact  that  his  art  interests  were  not  yet 
dead  (the  Paris  exhibition  being  the  expiring  breath  of  his 
original  burst  of  force), — he  was  nevertheless  feeling  the  down- 
ward trend  of  his  affairs  most  keenly.  His  mind  was  not 
right.  That  was  surely  true.  His  money  affairs  were  getting 
worse,  not  better,  for  while  he  could  hope  for  a  few  sales  yet 
(the  Paris  pictures  did  not  sell  in  New  York)  he  was  not 
certain  that  this  would  be  the  case.  This  homeward  trip  had 
cost  him  two  hundred  of  his  seventeen  hundred  dollars  and  there 
would  be  additional  expenses  if  he  went  to  Chicago,  as  he 
planned  in  the  fall.  He  could  not  live  a  single  year  on  fifteen 
hundred  dollars — scarcely  more  than  six  months,  and  he  could 


290  THE   "GENIUS" 

not  paint  or  illustrate  anything  new  in  his  present  state.  Addi- 
tional sales  of  the  pictures  of  the  two  original  exhibitions  must 
be  effected  in  a  reasonable  length  of  time  or  he  would  find 
himself  in  hard  straits. 

Meanwhile,  Angela,  who  had  obtained  such  a  high  estimate 
of  his  future  by  her  experience  in  New  York  and  Paris,  was 
beginning  to  enjoy  herself  again,  for  after  all,  in  her  judg- 
ment, she  seemed  to  be  able  to  manage  Eugene  very  well.  He 
might  have  had  some  slight  understanding  with  Frieda  Roth — 
it  couldn't  have  been  much  or  she  would  have  seen  it,  she  thought 
— but  she  had  managed  to  break  it  up.  Eugene  was  cross,  nat- 
urally, but  that  was  due  more  to  her  quarreling  than  any- 
thing else.  These  storms  of  feeling  on  her  part — not  always 
premeditated — seemed  very  essential.  Eugene  must  be  made  to 
understand  that  he  was  married  now;  that  he  could  not  look 
upon  or  run  after  girls  as  he  had  in  the  old  days.  She  was 
well  aware  that  he  was  considerably  younger  than  she  was  in 
temperament,  inclined  to  be  exceedingly  boyish,  and  this  was 
apt  to  cause  trouble  anywhere.  But  if  she  watched  over  him, 
kept  his  attention  fixed  on  her,  everything  would  come  out 
all  right.  And  then  there  were  all  these  other  delightful 
qualities — his  looks,  his  genial  manner,  his  reputation,  his  talent. 
What  a  delightful  thing  it  had  become  to  announce  herself  as 
Mrs.  Eugene  Witla  and  how  those  who  knew  about  him  sat  up. 
Big  people  were  his  friends,  artists  admired  him,  common,  homely, 
everyday  people  thought  he  was  nice  and  considerate  and  able 
and  very  worth  while.  He  was  generally  liked  everywhere. 
What  more  could  one  want? 

Angela  knew  nothing  of  his  real  thoughts,  for  because  of 
sympathy,  a  secret  sense  of  injustice  toward  her  on  his  part, 
a  vigorous,  morbid  impression  of  the  injustice  of  life  as  a  whole, 
a  desire  to  do  things  in  a  kindly  or  at  least  a  secret  and  not 
brutal  way,  he  was  led  to  pretend  at  all  times  that  he  really  cared 
for  her;  to  pose  as  being  comfortable  and  happy;  to  lay  all  his 
moods  to  his  inability  to  work.  Angela,  who  could  not  read 
him  clearly,  saw  nothing  of  this.  He  was  too  subtle  for  her 
understanding  at  times.  She  was  living  in  a  fool's  paradise; 
playing  over  a  sleeping  volcano. 

He  grew  no  better  and  by  fall  began  to  get  the  notion  that 
he  could  do  better  by  living  in  Chicago.  His  health  would  come 
back  to  him  there  perhaps.  He  was  terribly  tired  of  Black- 
wood.  The  long  tree-shaded  lawn  was  nothing  to  him  now. 
The  little  lake,  the  stream,  the  fields  that  he  had  rejoiced  in 
at  first  were  to  a  great  extent  a  commonplace.  Old  Jotham  was 


THE    "GENIUS'  291 

a  perpetual  source  of  delight  to  him  with  his  kindly,  stable, 
enduring  attitude  toward  things  and  his  interesting  comment 
on  life,  and  Marietta  entertained  him  with  her  wit,  her  good 
nature,  her  intuitive  understanding;  but  he  could  not  be  happy 
just  talking  to  everyday,  normal,  stable  people,  interesting  and 
worthwhile  as  they  might  be.  The  doing  of  simple  things, 
living  a  simple  life,  was  just  now  becoming  irritating.  He 
must  go  to  London,  Paris — do  things.  He  couldn't  loaf  this 
way.  It  mattered  little  that  he  could  not  work.  He  must 
try.  This  isolation  was  terrible. 

There  followed  six  months  spent  in  Chicago  in  which  he 
painted  not  one  picture  that  was  satisfactory  to  him,  that  was 
not  messed  into  nothingness  by  changes  and  changes  and  changes. 
There  were  then  three  months  in  the  mountains  of  Tennessee 
because  someone  told  him  of  a  wonderfully  curative  spring  in 
a  delightful  valley  where  the  spring  came  as  a  dream  of  color 
and  the  expense  of  living  was  next  to  nothing.  There  were  four 
months  of  summer  in  southern  Kentucky  on  a  ridge  where 
the  air  was  cool,  and  after  that  five  months  on  the  Gulf  of 
Mexico,  at  Biloxi,  in  Mississippi,  because  some  comfortable 
people  in  Kentucky  and  Tennessee  told  Angela  of  this  delight- 
ful winter  resort  farther  South.  All  this  time  Eugene's  money, 
the  fifteen  hundred  dollars  he  had  when  he  left  Blackwood, 
several  sums  of  two  hundred,  one  hundred  and  fifty  and  two 
hundred  and  fifty,  realized  from  pictures  sold  in  New  York 
and  Paris  during  the  fall  and  winter  following  his  Paris  ex- 
hibition, and  two  hundred  which  had  come  some  months  after- 
ward from  a  fortuitous  sale  by  M.  Charles  of  one  of  his  old 
New  York  views,  had  been  largely  dissipated.  He  still  had 
five  hundred  dollars,  but  with  no  pictures  being  sold  and  none 
painted  he  was  in  a  bad  way  financially  in  so  far  as  the  future 
was  concerned.  He  could  possibly  return  to  Alexandria  with 
Angela  and  live  cheaply  there  for  another  six  months,  but 
because  of  the  Frieda  incident  both  he  and  she  objected  to  it. 
Angela  was  afraid  of  Frieda  and  was  resolved  that  she  would 
not  go  there  so  long  as  Frieda  was  in  the  town,  and*  Eugene  was 
ashamed  because  of  the  light  a  return  would  throw  on  his 
fading  art  prospects.  Blackwood  was  out  of  the  question  to 
him.  They  had  lived  on  her  parents  long  enough.  If  he  did  not 
get  better  he  must  soon  give  up  this  art  idea  entirely,  for  he 
could  not  live  on  trying  to  paint. 

He  began  to  think  that  he  was  possessed — obsessed  of  a  devil — 
and  that  some  people  were  pursued  by  evil  spirits,  fated  by  stars, 
doomed  from  their  birth  to  failure  or  accident.  How  did  the 


292  THE    "GENIUS" 

astrologer  in  New  York  know  that  he  was  to  have  four  years 
of  bad  luck?  He  had  seen  three  of  them  already.  Why  did  a 
man  who  read  his  palm  in  Chicago  once  say  that  his  hand  showed 
two  periods  of  disaster,  just  as  the  New  York  astrologer  had 
and  that  he  was  likely  to  alter  the  course  of  his  life  radically  in 
the  middle  portion  of  it?  Were  there  any  fixed  laws  of  being? 
Did  any  of  the  so-called  naturalistic  school  of  philosophers  and 
scientists  whom  he  had  read  know  anything  at  all?  They 
were  always  talking  about  the  fixed  laws  of  the  universe — the 
unalterable  laws  of  chemistry  and  physics.  Why  didn't  chemistry 
or  physics  throw  some  light  on  his  peculiar  physical  condition, 
on  the  truthful  prediction  of  the  astrologer,  on  the  signs  and 
portents  which  he  had  come  to  observe  for  himself  as  fore- 
telling trouble  or  good  fortune  for  himself.  If  his  left  eye 
twitched  he  had  observed  of  late  he  was  going  to  have  a  quarrel 
with  someone — invariably  Angela.  If  he  found  a  penny  or  any 
money,  he  was  going  to  get  money;  for  every  notification  of  a 
sale  of  a  picture  with  the  accompanying  check  had  been  preceded 
by  the  discovery  of  a  coin  somewhere:  once  a  penny  in  State 
Street,  Chicago,  on  a  rainy  day — M.  Charles  wrote  that  a 
picture  had  been  sold  in  Paris  for  two  hundred;  once  a  three- 
cent  piece  of  the  old  American  issue  in  the  dust  of  a  road  in 
Tennessee — M.  Charles  wrote  that  one  of  his  old  American 
views  had  brought  one  hundred  and  fifty;  once  a  penny  in  sands 
by  the  Gulf  in  Biloxi — another  notification  of  a  sale.  So  it 
went.  He  found  that  when  doors  squeaked,  people  were  apt  to 
get  sick  in  the  houses  where  they  were ;  and  a  black  dog  howling 
in  front  of  a  house  was  a  sure  sign  of  death.  He  had  seen  this 
with  his  own  eyes,  this  sign  which  his  mother  had  once  told  him 
of  as  having  been  verified  in  her  experience,  in  connection  with 
the  case  of  a  man  who  was  sick  in  Biloxi.  He  was  sick,  and  a 
dog  came  running  along  the  street  and  stopped  in  front  of  this 
place — a  black  dog — and  the  man  died.  Eugene  saw  this  with 
his  own  eyes, — that  is,  the  dog  and  the  sick  man's  death  notice. 
The  dog  howled  at  four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  and  the  next 
morning  the  man  was  dead.  He  saw  the  crape  on  the  door. 
Angela  mocked  at  his  superstition,  but  he  wTas  convinced.  "There 
are  more  things  in  heaven  and  earth,  Horatio,  than  are  dreamt 
of  in  your  philosophy." 


CHAPTER  XVI 

T^UGENE  was  reaching  the  point  where  he  had  no  more 
JL-'  money  and  was  compelled  to  think  by  what  process  he 
would  continue  to  make  a  living  in  the  future.  Worry  and  a 
hypochondriacal  despair  had  reduced  his  body  to  a  comparatively 
gaunt  condition.  His  eyes  had  a  nervous,  apprehensive  look.  He 
would  walk  about  speculating  upon  the  mysteries  of  nature, 
wondering  how  he  was  to  get  out  of  this,  what  was  to  become 
of  him,  how  soon,  if  ever,  another  picture  would  be  sold,  when? 
Angela,  from  having  fancied  that  his  illness  was  a  mere  tempo- 
rary indisposition,  had  come  to  feel  that  he  might  be  seriously  af- 
fected for  some  time.  He  was  not  sick  physically:  he  could  walk 
and  eat  and  talk  vigorously  enough,  but  he  could  not  work  and 
he  was  worrying,  worrying,  worrying. 

Angela  was  quite  as  well  aware  as  Eugene  that  their  finances 
were  in  a  bad  way  or  threatening  to  become  so,  though  he  said 
nothing  at  all  about  them.  He  was  ashamed  to  confess  at  this 
day,  after  their  very  conspicuous  beginning  in  New  York,  that  he 
was  in  fear  of  not  doing  well.  How  silly — he  with  all  his  abil- 
ity !  Surely  he  would  get  over  this,  and  soon. 

Angela's  economical  upbringing  and  naturally  saving  instinct 
stood  her  in  good  stead  now,  for  she  could  market  with  the 
greatest  care,  purchase  to  the  best  advantage,  make  every  scrap 
and  penny  count.  She  knew  how  to  make  her  own  clothes,  as 
Eugene  had  found  out  when  he  first  visited  Blackwood,  and 
was  good  at  designing  hats.  Although  she  had  thought  in  New 
York,  when  Eugene  first  began  to  make  money,  that  now  she 
would  indulge  in  tailor-made  garments  and  the  art  of  an  excel- 
lent dressmaker,  she  had  never  done  so.  With  true  frugality 
she  had  decided  to  wait  a  little  while,  and  then  Eugene's  health 
having  failed  she  had  not  the  chance  any  more.  Fearing  the 
possible  long  duration  of  this  storm  she  had  begun  to  mend  and 
clean  and  press  and  make  over  whatever  seemed  to  require  it. 
Even  when  Eugene  suggested  that  she  get  something  new  she 
would  not  do  it.  Her  consideration  for  their  future — the  diffi- 
culty he  might  have  in  making  a  living,  deterred  her. 

Eugene  noted  this,  though  he  said  nothing.  He  was  not  un- 
aware of  the  fear  that  she  felt,  the  patience  she  exhibited,  the 
sacrifice  she  made  of  her  own  whims  and  desires  to  his,  and  he 

293 


294  THE    "GENIUS" 

was  not  entirely  unappreciative.  It  was  becoming  very  apparent  to 
him  that  she  had  no  life  outside  his  own — no  interests.  She  was 
his  shadow,  his  alter  ego,  his  servant,  his  anything  he  wanted  her 
to  be.  "Little  Pigtail"  was  one  of  his  jesting  pet  names  for  her 
because  in  the  West  as  a  boy  they  had  always  called  anyone  who 
ran  errands  for  others  a  pigtailer.  In  playing  "one  old  cat," 
if  one  wanted  another  to  chase  the  struck  balls  he  would  say: 
"You  pig-tail  for  me,  Willie,  will  you?"  And  Angela  was  his 
"little  pigtail." 

There  were  no  further  grounds  for  jealousy  during  the  time, 
ahhost  two  years,  in  which  they  were  wandering  around  together, 
for  the  reason  that  she  was  always  with  him,  almost  his  sole 
companion,  and  that  they  did  not  stay  long  enough  in  any  one 
place  and  under  sufficiently  free  social  conditions  to  permit  him 
to  form  those  intimacies  which  might  have  resulted  disastrously. 
Some  girls  did  take  his  eye — the  exceptional  in  youth  and  physi- 
cal perfection  were  always  doing  that,  but  he  had  no  chance  or 
very  little  of  meeting  them  socially.  They  were  not  living  with 
people  they  knew,  were  not  introduced  in  the  local  social  worlds, 
which  they  visited.  Eugene  could  only  look  at  these  maidens 
whom  he  chanced  to  spy  from  time  to  time,  and  wish  that  he 
might  know  them  better.  It  was  hard  to  be  tied  down  to  a 
conventional  acceptance  of  matrimony — to  pretend  that  he  was 
interested  in  beauty  only  in  a  sociological  way.  He  had  to  do  it 
before  Angela  though  (and  all  conventional  people  for  that  mat- 
ter), for  she  objected  strenuously  to  the  least  interest  he  might 
manifest  in  any  particular  woman.  All  his  remarks  had  to  be 
general  and  guarded  in  their  character.  At  the  least  show  of 
feeling  or  admiration  Angela  would  begin  to  criticize  his  choice 
and  to  show  him  wherein  his  admiration  was  ill-founded.  If 
he  were  especially  interested  she  would  attempt  to  tear  his  latest 
ideal  to  pieces.  She  had  no  mercy,  and  he  could  see  plainly 
enough  on  what  her  criticism  was  based.  It  made  him  smile  but 
he  said  nothing.  He  even  admired  her  for  her  heroic  efforts  to 
hold  her  own,  though  every  victory  she  seemed  to  win  served  only 
to  strengthen  the  bars  of  his  own  cage. 

It  was  during  this  time  that  he  could  not  help  learning  and 
appreciating  just  how  eager,  patient  and  genuine  was  her  re- 
gard for  his  material  welfare.  To  her  he  was  obviously  the 
greatest  man  in  the  world,  a  great  painter,  a  great  thinker,  a 
great  lover,  a  great  personality  every  way.  It  didn't  make  so 
much  difference  to  her  at  this  time  that  he  wasn't  making  any 
money.  He  would  sometime,  surely,  and  wasn't  she  getting  it  all 
in  fame  anyhow,  now?  Why,  to  be  Mrs.  Eugene  Witla,  after 


THE  ''GENIUS''  295 

what  she  had  seen  of  him  in  New  York  and  Paris,  what  more 
could  she  want  ?  Wasn't  it  all  right  for  her  to  rake  and  scrape 
now,  to  make  her  own  clothes  and  hats,  save,  mend,  press  and 
patch  ?  He  would  come  out  of  all  this  silly  feeling  about  other 
women  once  he  became  a  little  older,  and  then  he  would  be  all 
right.  Anyhow  he  appeared  to  love  her  now ;  and  that  was  some- 
thing. Because  he  was  lonely,  fearsome,  uncertain  of  himself, 
uncertain  of  the  future,  he  welcomed  these  unsparing  attentions 
on  her  part,  and  this  deceived  her.  Who  else  would  give  them 
to  him,  he  thought;  who  else  would  be  so  faithful  in  times  like 
these?  He  almost  came  to  believe  that  he  could  love  her  again, 
be  faithful  to  her,  if  he  could  keep  out  of  the  range  of  these  other 
enticing  personalities.  If  only  he  could  stamp  out  this  eager  de- 
sire for  other  women,  their  praise  and  their  beauty ! 

But  this  was  more  because  he  was  sick  and  lonely  than  any- 
thing else.  If  he  had  been  restored  to  health  then  and  there, 
if  prosperity  had  descended  on  him  as  he  so  eagerly  dreamed,  it 
would  have  been  the  same  as  ever.  He  was  as  subtle  as  nature  it- 
self; as  changeable  as  a  chameleon.  But  two  things  were  sig- 
nificant and  real — two  things  to  which  he  was  as  true  and  un- 
varying as  the  needle  to  the  pole — his  love  of  the  beauty  of  life 
which  was  coupled  with  his  desire  to  express  it  in  color,  and  his 
love  of  beauty  in  the  form  of  the  face  of  a  woman,  or  rather  that 
of  a  girl  of  eighteen.  That  blossoming  of  life  in  womanhood 
at  eighteen! — there  was  no  other  thing  under  the  sun  like  it  to 
him.  It  was  like  the  budding  of  the  trees  in  spring;  the  blossom- 
ing of  flowers  in  the  early  morning;  the  odor  of  roses  and  dew, 
the  color  of  bright  waters  and  clear  jewels.  He  could  not  be  faith- 
less to  that.  He  could  not  get  away  from  it.  It  haunted  him 
like  a  joyous  vision,  and  the  fact  that  the  charms  of  Stella  and 
Ruby  and  Angela  and  Christina  and  Frieda  in  whom  it  had  been 
partially  or  wholly  shadowed  forth  at  one  time  or  another  had 
come  and  gone,  made  little  difference.  It  remained  clear  and 
demanding.  He  could  not  escape  it — the  thought;  he  could  not 
deny  it.  He  was  haunted  by  this,  day  after  day,  and  hour  after 
hour;  and  when  he  said  to  himself  that  he  was  a  fool,  and  that 
it  would  lure  him  as  a  will-o'-the-wisp  to  his  destruction  and 
that  he  could  find  no  profit  in  it  ultimately,  still  it  would  not 
down.  The  beauty  of  youth;  the  beauty  of  eighteen!  To  him 
life  without  it  was  a  joke,  a  shabby  scramble,  a  work-horse  job, 
with  only  silly  material  details  like  furniture  and  houses  and  steel 
cars  and  stores  all  involved  in  a  struggle  for  what?  To  make 
a  habitation  for  more  shabby  humanity?  Never!  To  make  a 
habitation  for  beauty?  Certainly!  What  beauty?  The  beauty 


296  THE    "GENIUS" 

of  old  age  ? — How  silly !  The  beauty  of  middle  age  ?  Nonsense ! 
The  beauty  of  maturity?  No!  The  beauty  of  youth?  Yes. 
The  beauty  of  eighteen.  No  more  and  no  less.  That  was  the 
standard,  and  the  history  of  the  world  proved  it.  Art,  literature, 
romance,  history,  poetry — if  they  did  not  turn  on  this  and  the 
lure  of  this  and  the  wars  and  sins  because  of  this,  what  did  they 
turn  on?  He  was  for  beauty.  The  history  of  the  world  justi- 
fied him.  Who  could  deny  it  ? 


CHAPTER  XVII 

FROM  Biloxi,  because  of  the  approach  of  summer  when  it 
would  be  unbearably  warm  there,  and  because  his  funds 
were  so  low  that  it  was  necessary  to  make  a  decisive  move  of 
some  kind  whether  it  led  to  complete  disaster  or  not,  he  decided 
to  return  to  New  York.  In  storage  with  Kellners  (M.  Charles 
had  kindly  volunteered  to  take  care  of  them  for  him)  were  a 
number  of  the  pictures  left  over  from  the  original  show,  and 
nearly  all  the  paintings  of  the  Paris  exhibition.  The  latter 
had  not  sold  well.  Eugene's  idea  was  that  he  could  slip  into 
New  York  quietly,  take  a  room  in  some  side  street  or  in  Jersey 
City  or  Brooklyn  where  he  would  not  be  seen,  have  the  pictures 
in  the  possession  of  M.  Charles  returned  to  him,  and  see  if  he 
could  not  get  some  of  the  minor  art  dealers  or  speculators  of 
whom  he  had  heard  to  come  and  look  at  them  and  buy  them  out- 
right. Failing  that,  he  might  take  them  himself,  one  by  one,  to 
different  dealers  here  and  there  and  dispose  of  them.  He  re- 
membered now  that  Eberhard  Zang  had,  through  Norma  Whit- 
more,  asked  him  to  come  and  see  him.  He  fancied  that,  as 
Kellners  had  been  so  interested,  and  the  newspaper  critics  had 
spoken  of  him  so  kindly  the  smaller  dealers  would  be  eager  to 
take  up  with  him.  Surely  they  would  buy  this  material.  It  was 
exceptional — very.  Why  not? 

Eugene  forgot  or  did  not  know  the  metaphysical  side  of  pros- 
perity and  failure.  He  did  not  realize  that  "as  a  man  thinketh 
so  is  he,"  and  so  also  is  the  estimate  of  the  whole  wrorld  at  the 
time  he  is  thinking  of  himself  thus — not  as  he  is  but  as  he  thinks 
he  is.  The  sense  of  it  is  abroad — by  what  processes  we  know 
not,  but  so  it  is. 

Eugene's  mental  state,  so  depressed,  so  helpless,  so  fearsome — 
a  rudderless  boat  in  the  dark,  transmitted  itself  as  an  impression, 
a  wireless  message  to  all  those  who  knew  him  or  knew  of  him. 
His  breakdown,  which  had  first  astonished  M.  Charles,  depressed 
and  then  weakened  the  latter's  interest  in  him.  Like  all  other 
capable,  successful  men  in  the  commercial  world  M.  Charles 
was  for  strong  men — men  in  the  heyday  of  their  success,  the 
zenith  of  their  ability.  The  least  variation  from  this  standard 
of  force  and  interest  was  noticeable  to  him.  If  a  man  was  going 
to  fail — going  to  get  sick  and  lose  his  interest  in  life  or  have 

297 


298  THE    "GENIUS" 

his  viewpoint  affected,  it  might  be  very  sad,  but  there  was  just 
one  thing  to  do  under  such  circumstances — get  away  from  him. 
Failures  of  any  kind  were  dangerous  things  to  countenance.  One 
must  not  have  anything  to  do  with  them.  They  were  very  un- 
profitable. Such  people  as  Temple  Boyle  and  Vincent  Beers, 
who  had  been  his  instructors  in  the  past  and  who  had  heard  of 
him  in  Chicago  at  the  time  of  his  success,  Luke  Severas,  William 
McConnell,  Oren  Benedict,  Hudson  Dula,  and  others  wondered 
what  had  become  of  him.  Why  did  he  not  paint  any  more?  He 
was  never  seen  in  the  New  York  haunts  of  art!  It  was  rumored 
at  the  time  of  the  Paris  exhibition  that  he  was  going  to  London 
to  do  a  similar  group  of  views,  but  the  London  exhibition  never 
came  off.  He  had  told  Smite  and  MacHugh  the  spring  he  left 
that  he  might  do  Chicago  next,  but  that  came  to  nothing.  There 
was  no  evidence  of  it.  There  were  rumors  that  he  was  very  rich, 
that  his  art  had  failed  him,  that  he  had  lost  his  mind  even,  and 
so  the  art  world  that  knew  him  and  was  so  interested  in  him 
no  longer  cared  very  much.  It  was  too  bad  but — so  thought  the 
rival  artists — there  was  one  less  difficult  star  to  contend  with. 
As  for  his  friends,  they  were  sorry,  but  such  was  life.  He  might 
recover.  If  not, — well — . 

As  time  went  on,  one  year,  another  year,  another  year,  the 
strangeness  of  his  suddenly  brilliant  burst  and  disappearance 
became  to  the  talented  in  this  field  a  form  of  classic  memory. 
He  was  a  man  of  such  promise!  Why  did  he  not  go  on  painting? 
There  was  an  occasional  mention  in  conversation  or  in  print, 
but  Eugene  to  all  intents  and  purposes  was  dead. 

When  he  came  to  New  York  it  was  after  his  capital  had  been 
reduced  to  three  hundred  dollars  and  he  had  given  Angela  one 
hundred  and  twenty-five  of  this  to  take  her  back  to  Blackwood 
and  keep  her  there  until  he  could  make  such  arrangements  as 
would  permit  her  to  join  him.  After  a  long  discussion  they  had 
finally  agreed  that  this  would  be  best,  for,  seeing  that  he  could 
neither  paint  nor  illustrate,  there  was  no  certainty  as  to  what 
he  would  do.  To  come  here  on  so  little  money  with  her  was 
not  advisable.  She  had  her  home  where  she  was  welcome  to  stay 
for  a  while  anyhow.  Meanwhile  he  figured  he  could  weather 
any  storm  alone. 

The  appearance  of  the  metropolis,  after  somewhat  over  two 
years  of  absence  during  which  he  had  wandered  everywhere,  was 
most  impressive  to  Eugene.  It  was  a  relief  after  the  mountains 
of  Kentucky  and  Tennessee  and  the  loneliness  of  the  Biloxi 
coast,  to  get  back  to  this  swarming  city  where  millions  were  hur- 
rying to  and  fro,  and  where  one's  misery  as  well  as  one's  pros- 


THE    "'GENIUS'  299 

parity  was  apparently  swallowed  up  in  an  inconceivable  mass  of 
life.  A  subway  was  being  built.  The  automobile,  which  only  a 
few  years  before  was  having  a  vague,  uncertain  beginning,  was 
now  attaining  a  tremendous  vogue.  Magnificent  cars  of  new  de- 
sign were  everywhere.  From  the  ferry-house  in  Jersey  City  he 
could  see  notable  changes  in  the  skyline,  and  a  single  walk  across 
Twenty-third  Street  and  up  Seventh  Avenue  showed  him  a 
changing  world — great  hotels,  great  apartment  houses,  a  tre- 
mendous crush  of  vainglorious  life  which  was  moulding  the  city 
to  its  desires.  It  depressed  him  greatly,  for  he  had  always  hoped 
to  be  an  integral  part  of  this  magnificence  and  display  and  now 
he  was  not — might  never  be  again. 

It  was  still  raw  and  cold,  for  the  spring  was  just  beginning 
to  break,  and  Eugene  was  compelled  to  buy  a  light  overcoat,  his 
own  imperishable  great  coat  having  been  left  behind,  and  he  had 
no  other  fit  to  wear.  Appearances,  he  thought,  demanded  this. 
He  had  spent  forty  of  his  closely-guarded  one  hundred  and  sev- 
enty-five dollars  coming  from  Biloxi  to  New  York,  and  now  an 
additional  fifteen  was  required  for  this  coat,  leaving  him  one 
hundred  and  twenty-five  dollars  with  which  to  begin  his  career 
anew.  He  was  greatly  worried  as  to  the  outcome,  but  curiously 
also  he  had  an  abiding  subconscious  feeling  that  it  could  not  be 
utterly  destructive  to  him. 

He  rented  a  cheap  room  in  a  semi-respectable  neighborhood 
in  West  Twenty-fourth  Street  near  Eleventh  Avenue  solely  be- 
cause he  wanted  to  keep  out  of  the  run  of  intellectual  life  and 
hide  until  he  could  get  on  his  feet.  It  was  an  old  and  shabby 
residence  in  an  old  and  shabby  red  brick  neighborhood  such  as 
he  had  drawn  in  one  of  his  views,  but  it  was  not  utterly  bad. 
The  people  were  poor  but  fairly  intellectual.  He  chose  this 
particular  neighborhood  with  all  its  poverty  because  it  was  near 
the  North  River  where  the  great  river  traffic  could  be  seen,  and 
where,  because  of  some  open  lots  in  which  were  stored  wagons, 
his  one  single  west  window  gave  him  a  view  of  all  this  life. 
About  the  corner  in  Twenty-third  Street,  in  another  somewhat 
decayed  residence,  was  a  moderate  priced  restaurant  and  board- 
ing house.  Here  he  could  get  a  meal  for  twenty-five  cents.  He 
cared  nothing  for  the  life  that  was  about  him.  It  was  cheap, 
poor,  from  a  money  point  of  view,  dingy,  but  he  would  not  be 
here  forever  he  hoped.  These  people  did  not  know  him.  Be- 
sides the  number  552  West  24th  Street  did  not  sound  bad.  It 
might  be  one  of  the  old  neighborhoods  with  which  New  York 
was  dotted,  and  which  artists  were  inclined  to  find  and  occupy. 

After  he  had  secured  this  room  from  a  semi-respectable  Irish 


300  THE    "GENIUS'1 

landlady,  a  dock  weigher's  wife,  he  decided  to  call  upon  M. 
Charles.  He  knew  that  he  looked  quite  respectable  as  yet,  de- 
spite his  poverty  and  decline.  His  clothes  were  good,  his  over- 
coat new,  his  manner  brisk  and  determined.  But  wrhat  he  could 
not  see  was  that  his  face  in  its  thin  sallowness,  and  his  eyes  with 
their  semi-feverish  lustre  bespoke  a  mind  that  was  harassed  by 
trouble  of  some  kind.  He  stood  outside  the  office  of  Kellner  and 
Son  in  Fifth  Avenue — a  half  block  from  the  door,  wondering 
whether  he  should  go  in,  and  just  what  he  should  say.  He  had 
written  to  M.  Charles  from  time  to  time  that  his  health  was 
bad  and  that  he  couldn't  work — always  that  he  hoped  to  be  bet- 
ter soon.  He  had  always  hoped  that  a  reply  would  come  that 
another  of  his  pictures  had  been  sold.  One  year  had  gone  and 
then  two,  and  now  a  third  was  under  way  and  still  he  was  not 
any  better.  M.  Charles  would  look  at  him  searchingly.  He 
would  have  to  bear  his  gaze  unflinchingly.  In  his  present  ner- 
vous state  this  was  difficult  and  yet  he  was  not  without  a  kind 
of  defiance  even  now.  He  would  force  himself  back  into  favor 
with  life  sometime. 

He  finally  mustered  up  his  courage  and  entered  and  M. 
Charles  greeted  him  warmly. 

"This  certainly  is  good, — to  see  you  again.  I  had  almost  given 
up  hope  that  you  would  ever  come  back  to  New  York.  How  is 
your  health  now?  And  how  is  Mrs.  Witla?  It  doesn't  seem 
as  though  it  had  been  three  years.  You're  looking  excellent. 
And  how  is  painting  going  now?  Getting  to  the  point  where 
you  can  do  something  again?" 

Eugene  felt  for  the  moment  as  though  M.  Charles  believed  him 
to  be  in  excellent  condition,  whereas  that  shrewd  observer  of 
men  was  wondering  what  could  have  worked  so  great  a  change. 
Eugene  appeared  to  be  eight  years  older.  There  were  marked 
wrinkles  between  his  eyes  and  an  air  of  lassitude  and  weariness. 
He  thought  to  himself,  "Why,  this  man  may  possibly  be  done  for 
artistically.  Something  has  gone  from  him  which  I  noted  the 
first  time  I  met  him:  that  fire  and  intense  enthusiasm  which 
radiated  force  after  the  fashion  of  an  arclight.  Now  he  seems 
to  be  seeking  to  draw  something  in, — to  save  himself  from 
drowning  as  it  were.  He  is  making  a  voiceless  appeal  for  con- 
sideration. What  a  pity!" 

The  worst  of  it  all  was  that  in  his  estimation  nothing  could 
be  done  in  such  a  case.  You  couldn't  do  anything  for  an  artist 
who  could  do  nothing  for  himself.  His  art  was  gone.  The 
sanest  thing  for  him  to  do  would  be  to  quit  trying,  go  at  some 
other  form  of  labor  and  forget  all  about  it.  It  might  be  that  he 


THE    '"GENIUS"  301 

would  recover,  but  it  was  a  question.  Nervous  breakdowns  were 
not  infrequently  permanent. 

Eugene  noticed  something  of  this  in  his  manner.  He  couldn't 
tell  exactly  what  it  was,  but  M.  Charles  seemed  more  than  or- 
dinarily preoccupied,  careful  and  distant.  He  wasn't  exactly 
chilly  in  his  manner,  but  reserved,  as  though  he  were  afraid  he 
might  be  asked  to  do  something  vrhich  he  could  not  very  well  do. 

"I  noticed  that  the  Paris  scenes  did  not  do  very  well  either 
here  or  in  Paris,"  observed  Eugene  with  an  air  of  nonchalance, 
as  though  it  were  a  matter  of  small  importance,  at  the  same  time 
hoping  that  he  would  have  some  favorable  word.  "I  had  the  idea 
that  they  would  take  better  than  they  did.  Still  I  don't  suppose 
I  ought  to  expect  everything  to  sell.  The  New  York  ones  did 
all  right." 

"They  did  very  well  indeed,  much  better  than  I  expected.  I 
didn't  think  as  many  would  be  sold  as  were.  They  were  very 
new  and  considerably  outside  the  lines  of  current  interest.  The 
Paris  pictures,  on  the  other  hand,  were  foreign  to  Americans 
in  the  wrong  sense.  By  that  I  mean  they  weren't  to  be  included 
in  that  genre  art  which  comes  from  abroad,  but  is  not  based 
on  any  locality  and  is  universal  in  its  appeal — thematically  speak- 
ing. Your  Paris  pictures  were,  of  course,  pictures  in  the  best 
sense  to  those  who  see  art  as  color  and  composition  and  idea,  but 
to  the  ordinary  lay  mind  they  were,  I  take  it,  merely  Paris  scenes. 
You  get  what  I  mean.  In  that  sense  they  were  foreign,  and 
Paris  has  been  done  illustratively  anyhow.  You  might  have  done 
better  with  London  or  Chicago.  Still  you  have  every  reason  to 
congratulate  yourself.  Your  work  made  a  distinct  impression 
both  here  and  in  France.  When  you  feel  able  to  return  to  it  I 
have  no  doubt  you  will  find  that  time  has  done  you  no  harm." 

He  tried  to  be  polite  and  entertaining,  but  he  was  glad  when 
Eugene  went  away  again. 

The  latter  turned  out  into  the  street  disconsolate.  He  could 
see  how  things  were.  He  was  down  and  out  for  the  present  and 
would  have  to  wait. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

THE  next  thing  was  to  see  what  could  be  done  with  the 
other  art  dealers  and  the  paintings  that  were  left.  There 
were  quite  a  number  of  them.  If  he  could  get  any  reasonable 
price  at  all  he  ought  to  be  able  to  live  quite  awhile — long  enough 
anyhow  to  get  on  his  feet  again.  When  they  came  to  his  quiet 
room  and  were  unpacked  by  him  in  a  rather  shamefaced  and 
disturbed  manner  and  distributed  about,  they  seemed  wonderful 
things.  Why,  if  the  critics  had  raved  over  them  and  M.  Charles 
had  thought  they  were  so  fine,  could  they  not  be  sold?  Art  deal- 
ers would  surely  buy  them!  Still,  now  that  he  was  on  the 
ground  again  and  could  see  the  distinctive  art  shops  from  the 
sidewalks  his  courage  failed  him.  They  were  not  running  after 
pictures.  Exceptional  as  he  might  be,  there  were  artists  in 
plenty — good  ones.  He  could  not  run  to  other  well  known  art 
dealers  very  well  for  his  work  had  become  identified  with  the 
house  of  Kellner  and  Son.  Some  of  the  small  dealers  might  buy 
them  but  they  would  not  buy  them  all — probably  one  or  two  at 
the  most,  and  that  at  a  sacrifice.  What  a  pass  to  come  to ! — he, 
Eugene  Witla,  who  three  years  before  had  been  in  the  heyday 
of  his  approaching  prosperity,  wondering  as  he  stood  in  the  room 
of  a  gloomy  side-street  house  how  he  was  going  to  raise  money 
to  live  through  the  summer,  and  how  he  was  going  to  sell  the 
paintings  which  had  seemed  the  substance  of  his  fortune  but 
two  years  before.  He  decided  that  he  would  ask  several  of  the 
middle  class  dealers  whether  they  would  not  come  and  look  at 
what  he  had  to  show.  To  a  number  of  the  smaller  dealers  in 
Fourth,  Sixth,  Eighth  Avenues  and  elsewhere  he  would  offer  to 
sell  several  outright  when  necessity  pinched.  Still  he  had  to  raise 
money  soon.  Angela  could  not  be  left  at  Blackwood  indefinitely. 
He  went  to  Jacob  Bergman,  Henry  LaRue,  Pottle  Freres  and 
asked  if  they  would  be  interested  to  see  what  he  had.  Henry 
Bergman,  who  was  his  own  manager,  recalled  his  name  at  once. 
He  had  seen  the  exhibition  but  was  not  eager.  He  asked  cu- 
riously how  the  pictures  of  the  first  and  second  exhibitions  had 
sold,  how  many  there  were  of  them,  what  prices  they  brought. 
Eugene  told  him. 

302 


THE    "GENIUS'  303 

"You  might  bring  one  or  two  here  and  leave  them  on  sale. 
You  know  how  that  is.  Someone  might  take  a  fancy  to  them. 
You  never  can  tell." 

He  explained  that  his  commission  was  twenty-five  per  cent, 
and  that  he  would  report  when  a  sale  was  made.  He  was  not 
interested  to  come  and  see  them.  Eugene  could  select  any  two 
pictures  he  pleased.  It  was  the  same  with  Henry  LaRue  and 
Pottle  Freres,  though  the  latter  had  never  heard  of  him.  They 
asked  him  to  show  them  one  of  his  pictures.  Eugene's  pride 
was  touched  the  least  bit  by  this  lack  of  knowledge  on  their 
part,  though  seeing  how  things  were  going  with  him  he  felt  as 
though  he  might  expect  as  much  and  more. 

Other  art  dealers  he  did  not  care  to  trust  with  his  paintings 
on  sale,  and  he  was  now  ashamed  to  start  carrying  them  about  to 
the  magazines,  where  at  least  one  hundred  and  twenty-five  to 
one  hundred  and  fifty  per  picture  might  be  expected  for  them,  if 
they  were  sold  at  all.  He  did  not  want  the  magazine  art  world 
to  think  that  lie  had  come  to  this.  His  best  friend  was  Hudson 
Dula,  and  he  might  no  longer  be  Art  Director  of  Truth.  As  a 
matter  of  fact  Dula  was  no  longer  there.  Then  there  were 
Jan  Jansen  and  several  others,  but  they  were  no  doubt  think- 
ing of  him  now  as  a  successful  painter.  It  seemed  as  though  his 
natural  pride  were  building  insurmountable  barriers  for  him. 
How  was  he  to  live  if  he  could  not  do  this  and  could  not  paint? 
He  decided  on  trying  the  small  art  dealers  with  a  single  picture, 
offering  to  sell  it  outright.  They  might  not  recognize  him  and 
so  might  buy  it  direct.  He  could  accept,  in  such  cases,  with- 
out much  shock  to  his  pride,  anything  which  they  might  offer, 
if  it  were  not  too  little. 

He  tried  this  one  bright  morning  in  May,  and  though  it  was 
not  without  result  it  spoiled  the  beautiful  day  for  him.  He  took 
one  picture,  a  New  York  scene,  and  carried  it  to  a  third  rate 
art  dealer  whose  place  he  had  seen  in  upper  Sixth  Avenue,  and 
without  saying  anything  about  himself  asked  if  he  would  like  to 
buy  it.  The  proprietor,  a  small,  dark  individual  of  Semitic  ex- 
traction, looked  at  him  curiously  and  at  his  picture.  He  could 
tell  from  a  single  look  that  Eugene  was  in  trouble,  that  he  needed 
money  and  that  he  was  anxious  to  sell  his  picture.  He  thought 
of  course  that  he  would  take  anything  for  it  and  he  was  not  sure 
that  he  wanted  the  picture  at  that.  It  was  not  very  popular 
in  theme,  a  view  of  a  famous  Sixth  Avenue  restaurant  showing 
behind  the  track  of  the  L  road,  with  a  driving  rain  pouring  in 
between  the  interstices  of  light.  Years  after  this  picture  was 
picked  up  by  a  collector  from  Kansas  City  at  an  old  furniture 


304  THE    "'GENIUS'8 

sale  and  hung  among  his  gems,  but  this  morning  its  merits  were 
not  very  much  in  evidence. 

"I  see  that  you  occasionally  exhibit  a  painting  in  your  window 
for  sale.  Do  you  buy  originals?" 

"Now  and  again,"  said  the  man  indifferently — "not  often. 
What  have  you?" 

"I  have  an  oil  here  that  I  painted  not  so  long  ago.  I  oc- 
casionally do  these  things.  I  thought  maybe  you  would  like  to 
buy  it." 

The  proprietor  stood  by  indifferently  while  Eugene  untied  the 
string,  took  off  the  paper  and  stood  the  picture  up  for  inspection. 
It  was  striking  enough  in  its  way  but  it  did  not  appeal  to  him  as 
being  popular.  "I  don't  think  it's  anything  that  I  could  sell 
here,"  he  remarked,  shrugging  his  shoulders.  "It's  good,  but  we 
don't  have  much  call  for  pictures  of  any  kind.  If  it  were  a 
straight  landscape  or  a  marine  or  a  figure  of  some  kind — .  Fig- 
ures sell  best.  But  this — I  doubt  if  I  could  get  rid  of  it.  You 
might  leave  it  on  sale  if  you  want  to.  Somebody  might  like  it. 
I  don't  think  I'd  care  to  buy  it." 

"I  don't  care  to  leave  it  on  sale,"  replied  Eugene  irritably. 
Leave  one  of  his  pictures  in  a  cheap  side-street  art  store — and  that 
on  sale!  He  would  not.  He  wanted  to  say  something  cutting 
in  reply  but  he  curbed  his  welling  wrath  to  ask, 

"How  much  do  you  think  it  wxmld  be  worth  if  you  did  want 
it?" 

"Oh,"  replied  the  proprietor,  pursing  his  lips  reflectively, 
"not  more  than  ten  dollars.  We  can't  ask  much  for  anything 
we  have  on  view  here.  The  Fifth  Avenue  stores  take  all  the 
good  trade." 

Eugene  winced.  Ten  dollars !  Why,  what  a  ridiculous  sum ! 
What  was  the  use  of  coming  to  a  place  like  this  anyhow?  He 
could  do  better  dealing  with  the  art  directors  or  the  better  stores. 
But  where  were  they?  Whom  could  he  deal  with?  Where 
were  there  any  stores  much  better  than  this  outside  the  large  ones 
which  he  had  already  canvassed.  He  had  better  keep  his  pic- 
tures and  go  to  work  now  at  something  else.  He  only  had  thirty- 
five  of  them  all  told  and  at  this  rate  he  would  have  just  three 
hundred  and  fifty  dollars  when  they  were  all  gone.  What  good 
would  that  do  him?  His  mood  and  this  preliminary  experience 
convinced  him  that  they  could  not  be  sold  for  any  much  greater 
sum.  Fifteen  dollars  or  less  would  probably  be  offered  and  he 
would  be  no  better  off  at  the  end.  His  pictures  would  be  gone 
and  he  would  have  nothing.  He  ought  to  get  something  to  do 
and  save  his  pictures.  But  what? 


THE  //GENIUS'  305 

To  a  man  in  Eugene's  position — he  was  now  thirty-one  years 
of  age,  with  no  training  outside  what  he  had  acquired  in  de- 
veloping his  artistic  judgment  and  ability — this  proposition  of 
finding  something  else  which  he  could  do  was  very  difficult.  His 
mental  sickness  was,  of  course,  the  first  great  bar.  It  made  him 
appear  nervous  and  discouraged  and  so  more  or  less  objectionable 
to  anyone  who  was  looking  for  vigorous  healthy  manhood  in  the 
shape  of  an  employee.  In  the  next  place,  his  look  and  manner 
had  become  decidedly  that  of  the  artist — refined,  retiring,  subtle. 
He  also  had  an  air  at  times  of  finicky  standoffishness,  particularly 
in  the  presence  of  those  who  appeared  to  him  commonplace  or 
who  by  their  look  or  manner  appeared  to  be  attempting  to  set 
themselves  over  him.  In  the  last  place,  he  could  think  of  nothing 
that  he  really  wanted  to  do — the  idea  that  his  art  ability  would 
come  back  to  him  or  that  it  ought  to  serve  him  in  this  crisis, 
haunting  him  all  the  time.  Once  he  had  thought  he  might  like 
to  be  an  art  director;  he  was  convinced  that  he  would  be  a  good 
one.  And  another  time  he  had  thought  he  would  like  to  write, 
but  that  was  long  ago.  He  had  never  written  anything  since 
the  Chicago  newspaper  specials,  and  several  efforts  at  concen- 
trating his  mind  for  this  quickly  proved  to  him  that  writing  was 
not  for  him  now.  It  was  hard  for  him  to  formulate  an  intelli- 
gent consecutive-idea'd  letter  to  Angela.  He  harked  back  to  his 
old  Chicago  days  and  remembering  that  he  had  been  a  collector 
and  a  driver  of  a  laundry  wagon,  he  decided  that  he  might  do 
something  of  that  sort.  Getting  a  position  as  a  street-car  con- 
ductor or  a  drygoods  clerk  appealed  to  him  as  possibilities.  The 
necessity  of  doing  something  within  regular  hours  and  in  a  rou- 
tine way  appealed  to  him  as  having  curative  properties.  How 
should  he  get  such  a  thing? 

If  it  had  not  been  for  the  bedeviled  state  of  his  mind  this 
would  not  have  been  such  a  difficult  matter,  for  he  was  physically 
active  enough  to  hold  any  ordinary  position.  He  might  have  ap- 
pealed frankly  and  simply  to  M.  Charles  or  Isaac  Wertheim 
and  through  influence  obtained  something  which  would  have 
tided  him  over,  but  he  was  too  sensitive  to  begin  with  and  his 
present  weakness  made  him  all  the  more  fearful  and  retiring. 
He  had  but  one  desire  when  he  thought  of  doing  anything  out- 
side his  creative  gift,  and  that  was  to  slink  away  from  the  gaze 
of  men.  How  could  he,  with  his  appearance,  his  reputation,  his 
tastes  and  refinement,  hobnob  with  conductors,  drygoods  clerks, 
railroad  hands  or  drivers?  It  wasn't  possible — he  hadn't  the 
strength.  Besides  all  that  was  a  thing  of  the  past,  or  he  thought 
it  was.  He  had  put  it  behind  him  in  his  art  student  days.  Now 


306  THE    "GENIUS" 

to  have  to  get  out  and  look  for  a  job!  How  could  he?  He 
walked  the  streets  for  days  and  days,  coming  back  to  his  room  to 
see  if  by  any  chance  he  conld  paint  yet,  writing  long,  rambling, 
emotional  letters  to  Angela.  It  was  pitiful.  In  fits  of  gloom 
he  would  take  out  an  occasional  picture  and  sell  it,  parting  with 
it  for  ten  or  fifteen  dollars  after  he  had  carried  it  sometimes  for 
miles.  His  one  refuge  was  in  walking,  for  somehow  he  could  not 
walk  and  feel  very,  very  bad.  The  beauty  of  nature,  the  activity 
of  people  entertained  and  diverted  his  mind.  He  would  come 
back  to  his  room  some  evenings  feeling  as  though  a  great  change 
had  come  over  him,  as  though  he  were  going  to  do  better  now; 
but  this  did  not  last  long.  A  little  while  and  he  would  be  back 
in  his  old  mood  again.  He  spent  three  months  this  way,  drifting, 
before  he  realized  that  he  must  do  something — that  fall  and  win- 
ter would  be  coming  on  again  in  a  little  while  and  he  would  have 
nothing  at  all. 

In  his  desperation  he  first  attempted  to  get  an  art  directorship, 
but  two  or  three  interviews  with  publishers  of  magazines  proved 
to  him  pretty  quickly  that  positions  of  this  character  were  not 
handed  out  to  the  inexperienced.  It  required  an  apprenticeship, 
just  as  anything  else  did,  and  those  who  had  positions  in  this  field 
elsewhere  had  the  first  call.  His  name  or  appearance  did  not 
appear  to  strike  any  of  these  gentlemen  as  either  familiar  or  im- 
portant in  any  way.  They  had  heard  of  him  as  an  illustrator  and 
a  painter,  but  his  present  appearance  indicated  that  this  was  a 
refuge  in  ill  health  which  he  was  seeking,  not  a  vigorous,  con- 
structive position,  and  so  they  would  have  none  of  him.  He 
next  tried  at  three  of  the  principal  publishing  houses,  but  they 
did  not  require  anyone  in  that  capacity.  Truth  to  tell  he  knew 
very  little  of  the  details  and  responsibilities  of  the  position,  though 
he  thought  he  did.  After  that  there  was  nothing  save  drygoods 
stores,  street-car  registration  offices,  the  employment  offices  of 
the  great  railroads  and  factories.  He  looked  at  sugar  refineries, 
tobacco  factories,  express  offices,  railroad  freight  offices,  wonder- 
ing whether  in  any  of  these  it  would  be  possible  for  him  to  ob- 
tain a  position  which  would  give  him  a  salary  of  ten  dollars  a 
week.  If  he  could  get  that,  and  any  of  the  pictures  now  on 
show  with  Jacob  Bergman,  Henry  LaRue  and  Pottle  Freres 
should  be  sold,  he  could  get  along.  He  might  even  live  on  this 
with  Angela  if  he  could  sell  an  occasional  picture  for  ten  or  fif- 
teen dollars.  But  he  was  paying  seven  dollars  a  week  for  noth- 
ing save  food  and  room,  and  scarcely  managing  to  cling  to  the 
one  hundred  dollars  which  had  remained  of  his  original  traveling 
fund  after  he  had  paid  all  his  opening  expenses  here  in  New 


THE    "GENIUS"  307 

York.     He  was  afraid  to  part  with  all  his  pictures  in  this  way 
for  fear  he  would  be  sorry  for  it  after  a  while. 

Work  is  hard  to  get  under  the  most  favorable  conditions  of 
health  and  youth  and  ambition,  and  the  difficulties  of  obtaining 
it  under  unfavorable  ones  need  not  be  insisted  on.  Imagine  if  you 
can  the  crowds  of  men,  forty,  fifty,  one  hundred  strong,  that 
wait  at  the  door  of  every  drygoods  employment  office,  every 
street-car  registration  bureau,  on  the  special  days  set  aside  for 
considering  applications,  at  every  factory,  shop  or  office  where 
an  advertisement  calling  for  a  certain  type  of  man  or  woman  was 
inserted  in  the  newspapers.  On  a  few  occasions  that  Eugene 
tried  or  attempted  to  try,  he  found  himself  preceded  by  peculiar 
groups  of  individuals  who  eyed  him  curiously  as  he  approached, 
wondering,  as  he  thought,  whether  a  man  of  his  type  could  be 
coming  to  apply  for  a  job.  They  seemed  radically  different  from 
himself  to  his  mind,  men  with  little  education  and  a  grim  con- 
sciousness of  the  difficulties  of  life;  young  men,  vapid  looking 
men,  shabby,  stale,  discouraged  types — men  who,  like  himself, 
looked  as  though  they  had  seen  something  very  much  better, 
and  men  who  looked  as  though  they  had  seen  things  a  great  deal 
worse.  The  evidence  which  frightened  him  was  the  presence 
of  a  group  of  bright,  healthy,  eager  looking  boys  of  nineteen, 
twenty,  twenty-one  and  twenty-two  who,  like  himself  when  he 
first  went  to  Chicago  years  before,  were  everywhere  he  went. 
When  he  drew  near  he  invariably  found  it  impossible  to  indicate 
in  any  way  that  he  was  looking  for  anything.  He  couldn't. 
His  courage  failed  him;  he  felt  that  he  looked  too  superior; 
self-consciousness  and  shame  overcame  him. 

He  learned  now  that  men  rose  as  early  as  four  o'clock  in  the 
morning  to  buy  a  newspaper  and  ran  quickly  to  the  address 
mentioned  in  order  to  get  the  place  at  the  head  of  the  line,  thus 
getting  the  first  consideration  as  an  applicant.  He  learned  that 
some  other  men,  such  as  waiters,  cooks,  hotel  employees  and  so 
on,  frequently  stayed  up  all  night  in  order  to  buy  a  paper  at  two 
in  the  morning,  winter  or  summer,  rain  or  snow,  heat  or  cold, 
and  hurry  to  the  promising  addresses  they  might  find.  He  learned 
that  the  crowds  of  applicants  were  apt  to  become  surly  or  sarcastic 
or  contentious  as  their  individual  chances  were  jeopardized  by 
ever-increasing  numbers.  And  all  this  was  going  on  all  the  time, 
in  winter  or  summer,  heat  or  cold,  rain  or  snow.  Pretending 
interest  as  a  spectator,  he  would  sometimes  stand  and  watch, 
hearing  the  ribald  jests,  the  slurs  cast  upon  life,  fortune,  in- 
dividuals in  particular  and  in  general  by  those  who  were  wearily 
or  hopelessly  waiting.  It  was  a  horrible  picture  to  him  in  his 


3o8  THE    "GENIUS' 

present  condition.  It  was  like  the  grinding  of  the  millstones, 
upper  and  nether.  These  were  the  chaff.  He  was  a  part  of  the 
chaff  at  present,  or  in  danger  of  becoming  so.  Life  was  winnow- 
ing him  out.  He  might  go  down,  down,  and  there  might  never 
be  an  opportunity  for  him  to  rise  any  more. 

Few,  if  any  of  us,  understand  thoroughly  the  nature  of  the 
unconscious  stratification  which  takes  place  in  life,  the  layers 
and  types  and  classes  into  which  it  assorts  itself  and  the  barriers 
which  these  offer  to  a  free  migration  of  individuals  from  one 
class  to  another.  We  take  on  so  naturally  the  material  habili- 
ments of  our  temperaments,  necessities  and  opportunities.  Priests, 
doctors,  lawyers,  merchants,  appear  to  be  born  with  their  particu- 
lar mental  attitude  and  likewise  the  clerk,  the  ditch-digger,  the 
janitor.  They  have  their  codes,  their  guilds  and  their  class 
feelings.  And  while  they  may  be  spiritually  closely  related,  they 
are  physically  far  apart.  Eugene,  after  hunting  for  a  place  for 
a  month,  knew  a  great  deal  more  about  this  stratification  than 
he  had  ever  dreamed  of  knowing.  He  found  that  he  was 
naturally  barred  by  temperament  from  some  things,  from  others 
by  strength  and  weight,  or  rather  the  lack  of  them ;  from  others, 
by  inexperience;  from  others,  by  age;  and  so  on.  And  those 
who  were  different  from  him  in  any  or  all  of  these  respects 
were  inclined  to  look  at  him  askance.  "You  are  not  as  we  are," 
their  eyes  seemed  to  say;  "why  do  you  come  here?" 

One  day  he  approached  a  gang  of  men  who  were  waiting 
outside  a  car  barn  and  sought  to  find  out  where  the  registration 
office  was.  He  did  not  lay  off  his  natural  manner  of  superiority 
— could  not,  but  asked  a  man  near  him  if  he  knew.  It  had 
taken  all  his  courage  to  do  this. 

"He  wouldn't  be  after  lookin*  fer  a  place  as  a  conductor 
now,  would  he?"  he  heard  someone  say  within  his  hearing.  For 
some  reason  this  remark  took  all  his  courage  away.  He  went 
up  the  wooden  stairs  to  the  little  office  where  the  application 
blanks  were  handed  out,  but  did  not  even  have  the  courage  to 
apply  for  one.  He  pretended  to  be  looking  for  someone  and 
went  out  again.  Later,  before  a  drygoods  superintendent's 
office,  he  heard  a  youth  remark,  "Look  what  wants  to  be  a  clerk." 
It  froze  him. 

It  is  a  question  how  long  this  aimless,  nervous  wandering 
would  have  continued  if  it  had  not  been  for  the  accidental  recol- 
lection of  an  experience  which  a  fellow  artist  once  related  to 
him  of  a  writer  who  had  found  himself  nervously  depressed 
and  who,  by  application  to  the  president  of  a  railroad,  had 
secured  as  a  courtesy  to  the  profession  which  he  represented  so 


THE  "GENIUS''  309 

ably  a  position  as  an  apprentice  in  a  surveying  corps,  being  given 
transportation  to  a  distant  section  of  the  country  and  employed 
at  a  laborer's  wages  until  he  was  well.  Eugene  now  thought 
of  this  as  quite  an  idea  for  himself.  Why  it  had  not  occurred  to 
him  before  he  did  not  know.  He  could  apply  as  an  artist — his 
appearance  would  bear  him  out,  and  being  able  to  speak  from  the 
vantage  point  of  personal  ability  temporarily  embarrassed  by  ill 
health,  his  chances  of  getting  something  would  be  so  much  better. 
It  would  not  be  the  same  as  a  position  which  he  had  secured  for 
himself  without  fear  or  favor,  but  it  would  be  a  position,  different 
from  farming  with  Angela's  father  because  it  would  command 
a  salary. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

THIS  idea  of  appealing  to  the  president  of  one  of  the  great 
railroads  that  entered  New  York  was  not  so  difficult  to 
execute.  Eugene  dressed  himself  very  carefully  the  next  morning, 
and  going  to  the  office  of  the  company  in  Forty-second  Street, 
consulted  the  list  of  officers  posted  in  one  of  the  halls,  and  finding 
the  president  to  be  on  the  third  floor,  ascended.  He  dis- 
covered, after  compelling  himself  by  sheer  will  power  to  enter, 
that  this  so-called  office  was  a  mere  anteroom  to  a  force  of  as- 
sistants serving  the  president,  and  that  no  one  could  see  him 
except  by  appointment. 

"You  might  see  his  secretary  if  he  isn't  busy/*  suggested  the 
clerk  who  handled  his  card  gingerly. 

Eugene  was  for  the  moment  undetermined  what  to  do  but 
decided  that  maybe  the  secretary  could  help  him.  He  asked  that 
his  card  might  be  taken  to  him  and  that  no  explanation  be  de- 
manded of  him  except  by  the  secretary  in  person.  The  latter 
came  out  after  a  while,  an  under  secretary  of  perhaps  twenty- 
eight  years  of  age,  short  and  stout.  He  was  bland  and  ap- 
parently good  natured. 

"What  is  it  I  can  do  for  you?"  he  asked. 

Eugene  had  been  formulating  his  request  in  his  mind — some 
method  of  putting  it  briefly  and  simply. 

"I  came  up  to  see  Mr.  Wilson,"  he  said,  "to  see  if  he  would 
not  send  me  out  as  a  day-laborer  of  some  kind  in  connection 
with  some  department  of  the  road.  I  am  an  artist  by  profession 
and  I  am  suffering  from  neurasthenia.  All  the  doctors  I  have 
consulted  have  recommended  that  I  get  a  simple,  manual  position 
of  some  kind  and  work  at  it  until  I  am  well.  I  know  of  an 
instance  in  which  Mr.  Wilson,  assisted,  in  this  way,  Mr.  Savin 
the  author,  and  I  thought  he  might  be  willing  to  interest  himself 
in  my  case." 

At  the  sound  of  Henry  Savin's  name  the  under-secretary 
pricked  up  his  ears.  He  had,  fortunately,  read  one  of  his  books, 
and  this  together  with  Eugene's  knowledge  of  the  case,  his  per- 
sonal appearance,  a  certain  ring  of  sincerity  in  what  he  was  say- 
ing, caused  him  to  be  momentarily  interested. 

"There  is  no  position  in  connection  with  any  clerical  work 
which  the  president  could  give  you,  I  am  sure,"  he  replied. 
"All  of  these  things  are  subject  to  a  system  of  promotion.  It 

310 


THE    "GENIUS'1  311 

might  be  that  he  could  place  you  with  one  of  the  construction 
gangs  in  one  of  the  departments  under  a  foreman.  I  don't 
know.  It's  very  hard  work,  though.  He  might  consider  your 
case."  He  smiled  commiseratingly.  "I  question  whether  you're 
strong  enough  to  do  anything  of  that  sort.  It  takes  a  pretty 
good  man  to  wield  a  pick  or  a  shovel." 

"I  don't  think  I  had  better  worry  about  that  now/'  replied 
Eugene  in  return,  smiling  wearily.  "I'll  take  the  work  and  see 
if  it  won't  help  me.  I  think  I  need  it  badly  enough." 

He  was  afraid  the  under-secretary  would  repent  of  his  sugges- 
tion and  refuse  him  entirely. 

"Can  you  wait  a  little  while?"  asked  the  latter  curiously.  He 
had  the  idea  that  Eugene  was  someone  of  importance,  for  he  had 
suggested  as  a  parting  argument  that  he  could  give  a  number 
of  exceptional  references. 

"Certainly,"  said  Eugene,  and  the  secretary  went  his  way,  com- 
ing back  in  half  an  hour  to  hand  him  an  enveloped  letter. 

"We  have  the  idea,"  he  said  quite  frankly  waiving  any  sug- 
gestion of  the  president's  influence  in  the  matter  and  speaking  for 
himself  and  the  secretary-in-chief,  with  whom  he  had  agreed 
that  Eugene  ought  to  be  assisted,  "that  you  had  best  apply  to 
the  engineering  department.  Mr.  Hobsen,  the  chief-engineer, 
can  arrange  for  you.  This  letter  I  think  will  get  you  what 
you  want." 

Eugene's  heart  bounded.  He  looked  at  the  superscription  and 
saw  it  addressed  to  Mr.  Woodruff  Hobsen,  Chief  Engineer,  and 
putting  it  in  his  pocket  without  stopping  to  read  it,  but  thanking 
the  under-secretary  profusely,  went  out.  In  the  hall  at  a  safe 
distance  he  stopped  and  opened  it,  finding  that  it  spoke  of  him 
familiarly  as  "Mr.  Eugene  Witla,  an  artist,  temporarily  in- 
capacitated by  neurasthenia,"  and  went  on  to  say  that  he  was 
"desirous  of  being  appointed  to  some  manual  toil  in  some  con- 
struction corps.  The  president's  office  recommends  this  request 
to  your  favor." 

When  he  read  this  he  knew  it  meant  a  position.  It  roused 
curious  feelings  as  to  the  nature  and  value  of  stratification.  As 
a  laborer  he  was  nothing:  as  an  artist  he  could  get  a  position  as 
a  laborer.  After  all,  his  ability  as  an  artist  was  worth  something. 
It  obtained  him  this  refuge.  He  hugged  it  joyously,  and  a  few 
moments  later  handed  it  to  an  under-secretary  in  the  Chief- 
Engineer's  office.  Without  being  seen  by  anyone  in  authority 
he  was  in  return  given  a  letter  to  Mr.  William  Haverford, 
"Engineer  of  Maintenance  of  Way,"  a  pale,  anaemic  gentleman 
of  perhaps  forty  years  of  age,  who,  as  Eugene  learned  from  him 


3i2  THE    '"GENIUS" 

when  he  was  eventually  ushered  into  his  presence  a  half  hour 
later,  was  a  captain  of  thirteen  thousand  men.  The  latter  read 
the  letter  from  the  Engineer's  office  curiously.  He  was  struck 
by  Eugene's  odd  mission  and  his  appearance  as  a  man.  Artists 
wrere  queer.  This  was  like  one.  Eugene  reminded  him  of 
himself  a  little  in  his  appearance. 

"An  artist,"  he  said  interestedly.  "So  you  want  to  work  as 
a  day  laborer?"  He  fixed  Eugene  with  clear,  coal-black  eyes 
looking  out  of  a  long,  pear-shaped  face.  Eugene  noticed  that 
his  hands  were  long  and  thin  and  wThite  and  that  his  high,  pale 
forehead  was  crowned  by  a  mop  of  black  hair. 

"Neurasthenia.  I've  heard  a  great  deal  about  that  of  late, 
but  have  never  been  troubled  that  way  myself.  I  find  that  I 
derive  considerable  benefit  wThen  I  am  nervous  from  the  use  of 
a  rubber  exerciser.  You  have  seen  them  perhaps?" 

"Yes,"  Eugene  replied,  "I  have.  My  case  is  much  too  grave 
for  that,  I  think.  I  have  traveled  a  great  deal.  But  it  doesn't 
seem  to  do  me  any  good.  I  want  work  at  something  manual,  I 
fancy — something  at  which  I  have  to  wrork.  Exercise  in  a  room 
would  not  help  me.  I  think  I  need  a  complete  change  of  environ- 
ment. I  will  be  much  obliged  if  you  will  place  me  in  some 
capacity." 

"Well,  this  will  very  likely  be  it,"  suggested  Mr.  Haverford 
blandly.  "Working  as  a  day-laborer  will  certainly  not  strike 
you  as  play.  To  tell  you  the  truth,  I  don't  think  you  can 
stand  it."  He  reached  for  a  glass-framed  map  showing  the 
various  divisions  of  the  railroad  stretching  from  New  England 
to  Chicago  and  St.  Louis,  and  observed  quietly.  "I  could  send 
you  to  a  great  many  places,  Pennsylvania,  New  York,  Ohio, 
Michigan,  Canada."  His  finger  roved  idly  about.  "I  have 
thirteen  thousand  men  in  my  department  and  they  are  scattered 
far  and  wide." 

Eugene  marveled.  Such  a  position!  Such  authority!  This 
pale,  dark  man  sitting  as  an  engineer  at  a  switch  board  directing 
so  large  a  machine. 

"You  have  a  large  force,"  he  said  simply.  Mr.  Haverford 
smiled  wanly. 

"I  think,  if  you  will  take  my  advice,  you  will  not  go  in  a 
construction  corps  right  away.  You  can  hardly  do  manual  labor. 
There  is  a  little  carpenter  shop  which  we  have  at  Speonk,  not 
very  far  outside  the  city,  which  I  should  think  would  answer 
your  needs  admirably.  A  little  creek  joins  the  Hudson  there 
and  it's  out  on  a  point  of  land,  the  shop  is.  It's  summer  now, 
and  to  put  you  in  a  broiling  sun  with  a  gang  of  Italians  would  be 


THE    "GENIUS''  313 

a  little  rough.  Take  my  advice  and  go  here.  It  will  be  hard 
enough.  After  you  are  broken  in  and  you  think  you  want  a 
change  I  can  easily  arrange  if  for  you.  The  money  may  not 
make  so  much  difference  to  you  but  you  may  as  well  have  it.  It 
will  be  fifteen  cents  an  hour.  I  will  give  you  a  letter  to  Mr. 
Litlebrown,  our  division  engineer,  and  he  will  see  that  you  are 
properly  provided  for/' 

Eugene  bowed.  Inwardly  he  smiled  at  the  thought  that  the 
money  would  not  be  acceptable  to  him.  Anything  would  be  ac- 
ceptable. Perhaps  this  would  be  best.  It  was  near  the  city.  The 
description  of  the  little  carpenter  shop  out  on  the  neck  of  land 
appealed  to  him.  It  was,  as  he  found  when  he  looked  at  the  map 
of  the  immediate  division  to  which  this  belonged,  almost  within 
the  city  limits.  He  could  live  in  New  York — the  upper  portion 
of  it  anyhow. 

Again  there  was  a  letter,  this  time  to  Mr.  Henry  C.  Litle- 
brown, a  tall,  meditative,  philosophic  man  whom  Eugene  found 
two  days  later  in  the  division  offices  at  Yonkers,  who  in  turn 
wrote  a  letter  to  Mr.  Joseph  Brooks,  Superintendent  of  Build- 
ings, at  Mott  Haven,  whose  secretary  finally  gave  Eugene  a 
letter  to  Mr.  Jack  Stix,  foreman  carpenter  at  Speonk.  This 
letter,  when  presented  on  a  bright  Friday  afternoon,  brought  him 
the  advice  to  come  Monday  at  seven  A.  M.,  and  so  Eugene  saw 
a  career  as  a  day  laborer  stretching  very  conspicuously  before  him. 

The  "little  shop"  in  question  was  located  in  the  most  charming 
manner  possible.  If  it  had  been  set  as  a  stage  scene  for  his  especial 
artistic  benefit  it  could  not  have  been  better.  On  a  point  of  land 
between  the  river  and  the  main  line  of  the  railroad  and  a 
little  creek,  which  was  east  of  the  railroad  and  wThich  the  latter 
crossed  on  a  trestle  to  get  back  to  the  mainland  again,  it  stood, 
a  long,  low  two-storey  structure,  green  as  to  its  roof,  red  as  to 
its  body,  full  of  windows  which  commanded  picturesque  views 
of  passing  yachts  and  steamers  and  little  launches  and  row-boats 
anchored  safely  in  the  waters  of  the  cove  which  the  creek  formed. 
There  was  a  veritable  song  of  labor  which  arose  from  this  shop, 
for  it  was  filled  with  planes,  lathes  and  wood-turning  instru- 
ments of  various  kinds,  to  say  nothing  of  a  great  group  of  carpen- 
ters who  could  make  desks,  chairs,  tables,  in  short,  office  furniture 
of  various  kinds,  and  who  kept  the  company's  needs  of  these 
fittings  for  its  depots  and  offices  well  supplied.  Each  carpenter 
had  a  bench  before  a  window  on  the  second  floor,  and  in  the 
centre  were  the  few  necessary  machines  they  were  always  using, 
small  jig,  cross  cut,  band  and  rip  saws,  a  plane,  and  four  or  five 
lathes.  On  the  ground  floor  was  the  engine  room,  the  black- 


314  THE    "GENIUS'8 

smith's  shop,  the  giant  plane,  the  great  jig  and  cross  cut  saws,  and 
the  store  room  and  supply  closets.  Out  in  the  yard  were  piles  of 
lumber,  with  tracks  in  between,  and  twice  every  day  a  local 
freight  called  "The  Dinky"  stopped  to  switch  in  or  take  out 
loaded  cars  of  lumber  or  finished  furniture  and  supplies.  Eugene, 
as  he  approached  on  the  day  he  presented  his  letter,  stopped  to  ad- 
mire the  neatness  of  the  low  board  fence  which  surrounded  it  all, 
the  beauty  of  the  water,  the  droning  sweetness  of  the  saws. 

"Why,  the  work  here  couldn't  be  very  hard,"  he  thought.  He 
saw  carpenters  looking  out  of  the  upper  windows,  and  a  couple 
of  men  in  browTn  overalls  and  jumpers  unloading  a  car.  They 
were  carrying  great  three-by-six  joists  on  their  shoulders.  Would 
he  be  asked  to  do  anything  like  that.  He  scarcely  thought  so. 
Mr.  Haverford  had  distinctly  indicated  in  his  letter  to  Mr. 
Litlebrown  that  he  was  to  be  built  up  by  degrees.  Carrying  great 
joists  did  not  appeal  to  him  as  the  right  way,  but  he  presented 
his  letter.  He  had  previously  looked  about  on  the  high  ground 
which  lay  to  the  back  of  the  river  and  which  commanded  this 
point  of  land,  to  see  if  he  could  find  a  place  to  board  and  lodge, 
but  had  seen  nothing.  The  section  was  very  exclusive,  occu- 
pied by  suburban  New  Yorkers  of  wealth,  and  they  were  not 
interested  in  the  proposition  which  he  had  formulated  in  his 
own  mind,  namely  his  temporary  reception  somewhere  as  a  pay- 
ing guest.  He  had  visions  of  a  comfortable  home  somewhere 
now  with  nice  people,  for  strangely  enough  the  securing  of  this 
very  minor  position  had  impressed  him  as  the  beginning  of  the 
end  of  his  bad  luck.  He  was  probably  going  to  get  well  now, 
in  the  course  of  time.  If  he  could  only  live  with  some  nice 
family  for  the  summer.  In  the  fall  if  he  were  improving,  and 
he  thought  he  might  be,  Angela  could  come  on.  It  might  be 
that  one  of  the  dealers,  Pottle  Freres  or  Jacob  Bergman  or 
Henry  LaRue  would  have  sold  a  picture.  One  hundred  and 
fifty  or  two  hundred  dollars  joined  to  his  salary  would  go  a  long 
way  towards  making  their  living  moderately  comfortable.  Be- 
sides Angela's  taste  and  economy,  coupled  with  his  own  art  judg- 
ment, could  make  any  little  place  look  respectable  and  attrac- 
tive. 

The  problem  of  finding  a  room  was  not  so  easy.  He  followed 
the  track  south  to  a  settlement  which  was  visible  from  the  shop 
windows  a  quarter  of  a  mile  away,  and  finding  nothing  which 
suited  his  taste  as  to  location,  returned  to  Speonk  proper  and 
followed  the  little  creek  inland  half  a  mile.  This  adventure  de- 
lighted him  for  it  revealed  a  semi-circle  of  charming  cottages 
ranged  upon  a  hill  slope  which  had  for  its  footstool  the  little 


THE    "GENIUS"  315 

silvery-bosomed  stream.  Between  the  stream  and  the  hill  slope 
ran  a  semi-circular  road  and  above  that  another  road.  Eugene 
could  see  at  a  glance  that  here  was  middle  class  prosperity, 
smooth  lawns,  bright  awnings,  flower  pots  of  blue  and  yellow 
and  green  upon  the  porches,  doorsteps  and  verandas.  An  auto 
standing  in  front  of  one  house  indicated  a  certain  familiarity  with 
the  ways  of  the  rich,  and  a  summer  road  house,  situated  at  the 
intersection  of  a  road  leading  out  from  New  York  and  the  little 
stream  where  it  was  crossed  by  a  bridge,  indicated  that  the 
charms  of  this  village  were  not  unknown  to  those  who  came 
touring  and  seeking  for  pleasure.  The  road  house  itself  was 
hung  with  awnings  and  one  dining  balcony  out  over  the  water. 
Eugene's  desire  was  fixed  on  this  village  at  once.  He  wanted 
to  live  here — anywhere  in  it.  He  walked  about  under  the 
cool  shade  of  the  trees  looking  at  first  one  door  yard  and  then 
another  wishing  that  he  might  introduce  himself  by  letter  and 
be  received.  They  ought  to  welcome  an  artist  of  his  ability  and 
refinement  and  would,  he  thought,  if  they  knew.  His  working 
in  a  furniture  factory  or  for  the  railroad  as  a  day  laborer  for  his 
health  simply  added  to  his  picturesque  character.  In  his  wander- 
ings he  finally  came  upon  a  Methodist  church  quaintly  built  of 
red  brick  and  grey  stone  trimmings,  and  the  sight  of  its  tall, 
stained  glass  windows  and  square  fortress-like  bell-tower  gave 
him  an  idea.  Why  not  appeal  to  the  minister?  He  could 
explain  to  him  what  he  wanted,  show  him  his  credentials — for 
he  had  with  him  old  letters  from  editors,  publishers  and  art 
houses — and  give  him  a  clear  understanding  as  to  why  he  wanted 
to  come  here  at  all.  His  ill  health  and  distinction  ought  to 
appeal  to  this  man,  and  he  would  probably  direct  him  to  some 
one  who  would  gladly  have  him.  At  five  in  the  afternoon  he 
knocked  at  the  door  and  was  received  in  the  pastor's  study — a 
large  still  room  in  which  a  few  flies  were  buzzing  in  the  shaded 
light.  In  a  few  moments  the  minister  himself  came  in — a  tall, 
grey-headed  man,  severely  simple  in  his  attire  and  with  the  easy 
air  of  one  who  is  used  to  public  address.  He  was  about  to  ask 
what  he  could  do  for  him  when  Eugene  began  with  his  ex- 
planation. 

"You  don't  know  me  at  all.  I  am  a  stranger  in  this  section. 
[  am  an  artist  by  profession  and  I  am  coming  to  Speonk  on 
Monday  to  work  in  the  railroad  shop  there  for  my  health.  I  have 
been  suffering  from  a  nervous  breakdown  and  am  going  to  try 
day  labor  for  awhile.  I  want  to  find  a  convenient,  pleasant  place 
to  live,  and  I  thought  you  might  know  of  someone  here,  or  near 
here,  who  might  be  willing  to  take  me  in  for  a  little  while.  I 


316  THE    "GENIUS'1 

can  give  excellent  references.  There  doesn't  appear  to  be  any- 
thing in  the  immediate  neighborhood  of  the  shop." 

"It  is  rather  isolated  there,"  replied  the  old  minister,  studying 
Eugene  carefully.  "I  have  often  wondered  how  all  those  men 
like  it,  traveling  so  far.  None  of  them  live  about  here."  He 
looked  at  Eugene  solemnly,  taking  in  his  various  characteristics. 
He  was  not  badly  impressed.  He  seemed  to  be  a  reserved, 
thoughtful,  dignified  young  man  and  decidedly  artistic.  It  struck 
him  as  very  interesting  that  he  should  be  trying  so  radical  a  thing 
as  day  labor  for  his  nerves. 

"Let  me  see,"  he  said  thoughtfully.  He  sat  down  in  his  chair 
near  his  table  and  put  his  hand  over  his  eyes.  "I  don't  think 
of  anyone  just  at  the  moment.  There  are  plenty  of  families 
who  have  room  to  take  you  if  they  wTould,  but  I  question  very 
much  whether  they  would.  In  fact  I'm  rather  sure  they  wouldn't. 
Let  me  see  now." 

He  thought  again. 

Eugene  studied  his  big  aquiline  nose,  his  shaggy  grey  eye- 
brows, his  thick,  crisp,  grey  hair.  Already  his  mind  was 
sketching  him,  the  desk,  the  dim  walls,  the  whole  atmosphere  of 
the  room. 

"No,  no,"  he  said  slowly.  "I  don't  think  of  anyone.  There 
is  one  family — Mrs.  Hibberdell.  She  lives  in  the — let  me  see — 
first,  second,  third,  tenth  house  above  here.  She  has  one  nephew 
with  her  at  present,  a  young  man  of  about  your  age,  and  I  don't 
think  anyone  else.  I  don't  know  that  she  would  consider  taking 
you  in,  but  she  might.  Her  house  is  quite  large.  She  did  have 
her  daughter  with  her  at  one  time,  but  I'm  not  sure  that  she's 
there  now.  I  think  not." 

He  talked  as  though  he  were  reporting  his  own  thoughts  to 
himself  audibly. 

Eugene  pricked  up  his  ears  at  the  mention  of  a  daughter. 
During  all  the  time  he  had  been  out  of  New  York  he  had  not, 
with  the  exception  of  Frieda,  had  a  single  opportunity  to  talk 
intimately  with  any  girl.  Angela  had  been  with  him  all  the  time. 
Here  in  New  York  since  he  had  been  back  he  had  been  living 
under  such  distressing  conditions  that  he  had  not  thought  of 
either  youth  or  love.  He  had  no  business  to  be  thinking  of  it 
now,  but  this  summer  air,  this  tree-shaded  village,  the  fact  that 
he  had  a  position,  small  as  it  was,  on  which  he  could  depend 
and  which  would  no  doubt  benefit  him  mentally,  and  that  he  was 
somehow  feeling  better  about  himself  because  he  was  going  to 
work,  made  him  feel  that  he  might  look  more  interestedly  on  life 
again.  He  was  not  going  to  die;  he  was  going  to  get  well. 


THE    "GENIUS"  317 

Finding  this  position  proved  it.  And  he  might  go  to  the  house 
now  and  find  some  charming  girl  who  would  like  him  very  much. 
Angela  was  away.  He  was  alone.  He  had  again  the  freedom  of 
his  youth.  If  he  were  only  well  and  working! 

He  thanked  the  old  minister  very  politely  and  went  his  way, 
recognizing  the  house  by  certain  details  given  him  by  the  min- 
ister, a  double  balconied  veranda,  some  red  rockers,  two  yellow 
jardinieres  at  the  doorstep,  a  greyish  white  picket  fence  and  gate. 
He  walked  up  smartly  and  rang  the  bell.  A  very  intelligent 
woman  of  perhaps  fifty-five  or  sixty  with  bright  grey  hair  and 
clear  light  blue  eyes  was  coming  out  with  a  book  in  her  hand. 
Eugene  stated  his  case.  She  listened  with  keen  interest,  looking 
him  over  the  while.  His  appearance  took  her  fancy,  for  she 
was  of  a  strong  intellectual  and  literary  turn  of  mind. 

"I  wouldn't  ordinarily  consider  anything  of  the  kind,  but  I 
am  alone  here  with  my  nephew  and  the  house  could  easily  accom- 
modate a  dozen.  I  don't  want  to  do  anything  which  will  irritate 
him,  but  if  you  will  come  back  in  the  morning  I  will  let  you 
know.  It  would  not  disturb  me  to  have  you  about.  Do  you 
happen  to  know  of  an  artist  by  the  name  of  Deesa?" 

"I  know  him  well,"  replied  Eugene.  "He's  an  old  friend  of 
mine." 

"He  is  a  friend  of  my  daughter's,  I  think.  Have  you  enquired 
anywhere  else  here  in  the  village?" 

"No,"  said  Eugene. 

"That  is  just  as  well,"  she  replied. 

He  took  the  hint. 

So  there  was  no  daughter  here.  Well,  what  matter?  The 
view  was  beautiful.  Of  an  evening  he  could  sit  out  here  in  one 
of  the  rocking  chairs  and  look  at  the  water.  The  evening  sun, 
already  low  in  the  west  was  burnishing  it  a  bright  gold.  The 
outline  of  the  hill  on  the  other  side  was  dignified  and  peaceful. 
He  could  sleep  and  work  as  a  day  laborer  and  take  life  easy  for 
a  wrhile.  He  could  get  well  now  and  this  was  the  way  to  do  it. 
Day  laborer !  How  fine,  how  original,  how  interesting.  He  felt 
somewhat  like  a  knight-errant  reconnoitring  a  new  and  very 
strange  world. 


CHAPTER  XX 

matter  of  securing  admission  to  this  house  was  quickly 
JL  settled.  The  nephew,  a  genial,  intelligent  man  of  thirty- 
four,  as  Eugene  discovered  later,  had  no  objection.  It  appeared 
to  Eugene  that  in  some  way  he  contributed  to  the  support  of 
this  house,  though  Mrs.  Hibberdell  obviously  had  some  money 
of  her  own.  A  charmingly  furnished  room  on  the  second  floor 
adjoining  one  of  the  several  baths  was  assigned  him,  and  he  was 
at  once  admitted  to  the  freedom  of  the  house.  There  were  books, 
a  piano  (but  no  one  to  play  it),  a  hammock,  a  maid-of- all-work, 
and  an  atmosphere  of  content  and  peace.  Mrs.  Hibberdell,  a 
widow,  presumably  of  some  years  of  widowhood,  wras  of  that 
experience  and  judgment  in  life  which  gave  her  intellectual  poise. 
She  was  not  particularly  inquisitive  about  anything  in  connection 
with  him,  and  so  far  as  he  could  see  from  surface  indications 
was  refined,  silent,  conservative.  She  could  jest,  and  did,  in  a 
subtle  understanding  way.  He  told  her  quite  frankly  at  the 
time  he  applied  that  he  was  married,  that  his  wife  was  in  the  West 
and  that  he  expected  her  to  return  after  his  health  was  somewhat 
improved.  She  talked  with  him  about  art  and  books  and  life 
in  general.  Music  appeared  to  be  to  her  a  thing  apart.  She 
did  not  care  much  for  it.  The  nephew,  Davis  Simpson,  was 
neither  literary  nor  artistic,  and  apparently  cared  little  for  music. 
He  was  a  buyer  for  one  of  the  larger  department  stores,  a  slight, 
dapper,  rather  dandified  type  of  man,  with  a  lean,  not  thin  but 
tight-muscled  face,  and  a  short  black  mustache,  and  he  appeared 
to  be  interested  only  in  the  humors  of  character,  trade,  baseball 
and  methods  of  entertaining  himself.  The  things  that  pleased 
Eugene  about  him  were  that  he  was  clean,  simple,  direct,  good- 
natured  and  courteous.  He  had  apparently  no  desire  to  infringe 
on  anybody's  privacy,  but  was  fond  of  stirring  up  light  discussions 
and  interpolating  witty  remarks.  He  liked  also  to  grow  flowers 
and  to  fish.  The  care  of  a  border  of  flowers  which  glorified  a 
short  gravel  path  in  the  back  yard  received  his  especial  attention 
evenings  and  mornings. 

It  was  a  great  pleasure  for  Eugene  to  come  into  this  atmosphere 
after  the  storm  which  had  been  assailing  him  for  the  past  three 
years,  and  particularly  for  the  past  ninety  days.  He  was  only 
asked  to  pay  eight  dollars  a  week  by  Mrs.  Hibberdell,  though 


THE    "GENIUS'  319 

he  realized  that  what  he  was  obtaining  in  home  atmosphere 
here  was  not  ordinarily  purchasable  at  any  price  in  the  public 
market.  The  maid  saw  to  it  that  a  little  bouquet  of  flowers  was 
put  on  his  dressing  table  daily.  He  was  given  fresh  towels  and 
linen  in  ample  quantities.  The  bath  was  his  own.  He  could  sit 
out  on  the  porch  of  an  evening  and  look  at  the  water  uninter- 
rupted or  he  could  stay  in  the  library  and  read.  Breakfast  and 
dinner  were  invariably  delightful  occasions,  for  though  he  rose 
at  five-forty-five  in  order  to  have  his  bath,  breakfast,  and  be 
able  to  walk  to  the  factory  and  reach  it  by  seven,  Mrs.  Hibberdell 
was  invariably  up,  as  it  was  her  habit  to  rise  thus  early,  had 
been  so  for  years.  She  liked  it.  Eugene  in  his  weary  mood 
could  scarcely  understand  this.  Davis  came  to  the  table  some 
few  moments  before  he  would  be  leaving.  He  invariably  had 
some  cheery  remark  to  offer,  for  he  was  never  sullen  or  gloomy. 
His  affairs,  whatever  they  were,  did  not  appear  to  oppress  him. 
Mrs.  Hibberdell  wrould  talk  to  Eugene  genially  about  his  work, 
this  small,  social  centre  of  which  they  were  a  part  and  which 
was  called  Riverwood,  the  current  movements  in  politics,  religion, 
science  and  so  forth.  There  were  references  sometimes  to  her 
one  daughter,  who  was  married  and  living  in  New  York.  It 
appeared  that  she  occasionally  visited  her  mother  here.  Eugene 
was  delighted  to  think  he  had  been  so  fortunate  as  to  find  this 
place.  He  hoped  to  make  himself  so  agreeable  that  there  wrould 
be  no  question  as  to  his  welcome,  and  he  was  not  disappointed. 

Between  themselves  Mrs.  Hibberdell  and  Davis  discussed  him, 
agreeing  that  he  was  entirely  charming,  a  good  fellow,  and  well 
worth  having  about.  At  the  factory  where  Eugene  worked 
and  where  the  conditions  were  radically  different,  he  made  for 
himself  an  atmosphere  which  was  almost  entirely  agreeable  to 
him,  though  he  quarreled  at  times  with  specific  details.  On 
the  first  morning,  for  instance,  he  was  put  to  work  with  two 
men,  heavy  clods  of  souls  he  thought  at  first,  familiarly  known 
about  the  yard  as  John  and  Bill.  These  two,  to  his  artistic  eye, 
appeared  machines,  more  mechanical  than  humanly  self-directive. 
They  were  of  medium  height,  not  more  than  five  feet,  nine  inches 
tall  and  weighed  about  one  hundred  and  eighty  pounds  each.  One 
had  a  round,  poorly  modeled  face  very  much  the  shape  of  an  egg, 
to  which  was  attached  a  heavy  yellowish  mustache.  He  had  a 
glass  eye,  complicated  in  addition  by  a  pair  of  spectacles  which 
were  fastened  over  his  large,  protruding  red  ears  with  steel  hooks. 
He  wore  a  battered  brown  hat,  now  a  limp  shapeless  mass.  His 
name  was  Bill  Jeffords  and  he  responded  sometimes  to  the 
sobriquet  of  "One  Eye." 


320  THE    "GENIUS' 

The  other  man  was  John  alias  "Jack"  Duncan,  an  individual 
of  the  same  height  and  build  with  but  slightly  more  modeling 
to  his  face  and  with  little  if  any  greater  intelligence.  He 
looked  somewhat  the  shrewder — Eugene  fancied  there  might  be 
lurking  in  him  somewhere  a  spark  of  humor,  but  he  was  mis- 
taken. Unquestionably  in  Jeffords  there  was  none.  Jack  Stix, 
the  foreman-carpenter,  a  tall,  angular,  ambling  man  with  red 
hair,  a  red  mustache,  shifty,  uncertain  blue  eyes  and  noticeably  big 
hands  and  feet,  had  suggested  to  Eugene  that  he  work  with 
these  men  for  a  little  while.  It  was  his  idea  to  "try  him  out," 
as  he  told  one  of  the  associate  foremen  who  was  in  charge  of  a 
gang  of  Italians  working  in  the  yard  for  the  morning,  and  he  was 
quite  equal  to  doing  it.  He  thought  Eugene  had  no  business 
here  and  might  possibly  be  scared  off  by  a  little  rough  work. 

"He's  up  here  for  his  health,"  he  told  him.  "I  don't  know 
where  he  comes  from.  Mr.  Brooks  sent  him  up  here  with 
orders  to  put  him  on.  I  want  to  see  how  he  takes  to  real  work 
for  awhile." 

"Look  out  you  don't  hurt  him,"  suggested  the  other.  "He 
don't  look  very  strong  to  me." 

"He's  strong  enough  to  carry  a  few  spiles,  I  guess.  If  Jimmy 
can  carry  'em,  he  can.  I  don't  intend  to  keep  him  at  it  long." 

Eugene  knew  nothing  of  this,  but  when  he  was  told  to  "come 
along,  new  man"  and  shown  a  pile  of  round,  rough  ash  trunk 
cutting  six  inches  in  diameter  and  eight  feet  long,  his  courage 
failed  him.  He  was  suffered  to  carry  some  of  these  to  the  second 
floor,  how  many  he  did  not  know. 

"Take  'em  to  Thompson  up  there  in  the  corner,"  said  Jeffords 
dully. 

Eugene  grasped  one  uncertainly  in  the  middle  with  his  thin, 
artistic  hands.  He  did  not  know  that  there  were  ways  of  han- 
dling lumber  just  as  there  were  ways  of  handling  a  brush.  He 
tried  to  lift  it  but  could  not.  The  rough  bark  scratched  his 
fingers  cruelly. 

"Yah  gotta  learn  somepin  about  that  before  yuh  begin,  I 
guess,"  said  Jack  Duncan,  who  had  been  standing  by  eyeing 
him  narrowly. 

Jeffords  had  gone  about  some  other  work. 

"I  suppose  I  don't  know  very  much  about  it,"  replied  Eugene 
shamefacedly  stopping  and  waiting  for  further  instructions. 

"Lemme  show  you  a  trick,"  said  his  associate.  "There's  tricks 
in  all  these  here  trades.  Take  it  by  the  end  this-a-way,  and 
push  it  along  until  you  can  stand  it  up.  Stoop  down  now  and  put 
your  shoulder  right  next  the  middle.  Gotta  pad  under  your 


THE   '"GENIUS"  321 

shirt?  You  oughtta  have  one.  Now  put  your  right  arm  out 
ahead  o'yuh,  on  the  spile.  Now  you're  all  right." 

Eugene  straightened  up  and  the  rough  post  balanced  itself 
evenly  but  crushingly  on  his  shoulder.  It  appeared  to  grind  his 
muscles  and  his  back  and  legs  ached  instantly.  He  started 
bravely  forward  straining  to  appear  at  ease  but  within  fifty  feet 
he  was  suffering  agony.  He  walked  the  length  of  the  shop, 
however,  up  the  stairs  and  back  again  to  the  window  where 
Thompson  was,  his  forehead  bursting  with  perspiration  and  his 
ears  red  with  blood.  He  fairly  staggered  as  he  neared  the 
machine  and  dropped  the  post  heavily. 

"Look  what  you're  doin',"  said  a  voice  behind  him.  It  was 
Thompson,  the  lathe  worker.  "Can't  you  put  that  down  easy?" 

"No,  I  can't,"  replied  Eugene  angrily,  his  face  tinged  with  a 
faint  blush  from  his  extreme  exertion.  He  was  astonished  and 
enraged  to  think  they  should  put  him  to  doing  work  like  this, 
especially  since  Mr.  Haverford  had  told  him  it  would  be  easy. 
He  suspected  at  once  a  plot  to  drive  him  away.  He  would  have 
added  "these  are  too  damn  heavy  for  me,"  but  he  restrained  him- 
self. He  went  down  stairs  wondering  how  he  was  to  get  up  the 
others.  He  fingered  about  the  pole  gingerly  hoping  that  the  time 
taken  this  way  would  ease  his  pain  and  give  him  strength  for  the 
next  one.  Finally  he  picked  up  another  and  staggered  painfully 
to  the  loft  again.  The  foreman  had  his  eye  on  him  but  said 
nothing.  It  amused  him  a  little  to  think  Eugene  was  having 
such  a  hard  time.  It  wouldn't  hurt  him  for  a  change,  would  do 
him  good.  "When  he  gets  four  carried  up  let  him  go,"  he  said 
to  Thompson,  however,  feeling  that  he  had  best  lighten  the  situa- 
tion a  little.  The  latter  watched  Eugene  out  of  the  tail  of  his 
eye  noting  the  grimaces  he  made  and  the  strain  he  was  under- 
going, but  he  merely  smiled.  When  four  had  been  dropped  on 
the  floor  he  said:  "That'll  do  for  the  present,"  and  Eugene, 
heaving  a  groan  of  relief,  went  angrily  away.  In  his  nervous, 
fantastic,  imaginative  and  apprehensive  frame  of  mind,  he 
imagined  he  had  been  injured  for  life.  He  feared  he  had  strained 
a  muscle  or  broken  a  blood  vessel  somewhere. 

"Good  heavens,  I  can't  stand  anything  like  this,"  he  thought. 
"If  the  work  is  going  to  be  this  hard  I'll  have  to  quit.  I  wonder 
what  they  mean  by  treating  me  this  way.  I  didn't  come  here  to 
do  this." 

Visions  of  days  and  weeks  of  back-breaking  toil  stretched  be- 
fore him.  It  would  never  do.  He  couldn't  stand  it.  He  saw  his 
old  search  for  work  coming  back,  and  this  frightened  him  in 
another  direction.  "I  mustn't  give  up  so  easily,"  he  counseled 


322  THE    "GENIUS" 

himself  in  spite  of  his  distress.  "I  have  to  stick  this  out  a  little 
while  anyhow."  It  seemed  in  this  first  trying  hour  as  though  he 
were  between  the  devil  and  the  deep  sea.  He  went  slowly 
down  into  the  yard  to  find  Jeffords  and  Duncan.  They  were 
working  at  a  car,  one  inside  receiving  lumber  to  be  piled,  the 
other  bringing  it  to  him. 

"Get  down,  Bill,"  said  John,  who  was  on  the  ground  looking 
up  at  his  partner  indifferently.  "You  get  up  there,  new  man. 
What's  your  name  ?" 

"Witla,"  said  Eugene. 

"Well,  my  name's  Duncan.  We'll  bring  this  stuff  to  you  and 
you  pile  it." 

It  was  more  heavy  lumber,  as  Eugene  apprehensively  observed, 
quarter  cut  joists  for  some  building — "four  by  fours"  they  called 
them — but  after  he  was  shown  the  art  of  handling  them  they 
were  not  unmanageable.  There  were  methods  of  sliding  and 
balancing  them  which  relieved  him  of  a  great  quantity  of  labor. 
Eugene  had  not  thought  to  provide  himself  with  gloves  though, 
and  his  hands  were  being  cruelly  torn.  He  stopped  once  to 
pick  a  splinter  out  of  his  thumb  and  Jeffords,  who  was  coming 
up,  asked,  "Ain't  cha  got  no  gloves?" 

"No,"  said  Eugene,  "I  didn't  think  to  get  any." 

"Your  hands'll  get  pretty  well  bunged  up,  I'm  afraid.  Maybe 
Joseph '11  let  you  have  his  for  to-day,  you  might  go  in  and  ask 
him." 

"Where's  Joseph?"  asked  Eugene. 

"He's  inside  there.    He's  taking  from  the  plane." 

Eugene  did  not  understand  this  quite.  He  knew  what  a  plane 
was,  had  been  listening  to  it  sing  mightily  all  the  morning,  the 
shavings  flying  as  it  smoothed  the  boards,  but  taking? 

"Where's  Joseph  ?"  he  asked  of  the  plane  driver. 

He  nodded  his  head  to  a  tall  hump-shouldered  boy  of  perhaps 
twenty-two.  He  was  a  big,  simple,  innocent  looking  fellow. 
His  face  was  long  and  narrow,  his  mouth  wide,  his  eyes  a  watery 
blue,  his  hair  a  shock  of  brown,  loose  and  wavy,  with  a  good 
sprinkling  of  sawdust  in  it.  About  his  waist  was  a  big  piece 
of  hemp  bagging  tied  by  a  grass  rope.  He  wore  an  old  faded 
wool  cap  with  a  long  visor  in  order  to  shield  his  eyes  from  the 
flying  chips  and  dust,  and  when  Eugene  came  in  one  hand  was 
lifted  protectingly  to  shield  his  eyes.  Eugene  approached  him 
deprecatingly. 

"One  of  the  men  out  in  the  yard  said  that  you  might  have  a 
pair  of  gloves  you  would  lend  me  for  to-day.  I'm  piling  lumber 
and  it's  tearing  my  hands.  I  forgot  to  get  a  pair." 


THE    "GENIUS"  323 

"Sure,"  said  Joseph  genially  waving  his  hand  to  the  driver 
to  stop.  "They're  over  here  in  my  locker.  I  know  what  that  is. 
I  been  there.  When  I  come  here  they  rubbed  it  into  me  jist 
as  they're  doin'  to  you.  Doncher  mind.  You'll  come  out  all 
right.  Up  here  for  your  health,  are  you?  It  ain't  always  like 
that.  Somedays  there  ain't  most  nothin'  to  do  here.  Then  some- 
days  ag'in  there's  a  whole  lot.  Well,  it's  good  healthy  work, 
I  can  say  that.  I  ain't  most  never  sick.  Nice  fresh  air  we  git 
here  and  all  that." 

He  rambled  on,  fumbling  under  his  bagging  apron  for  his  keys, 
unlocking  his  locker  and  producing  a  great  pair  of  old  yellow 
lumber  gloves.  He  gave  them  to  Eugene  cheerfully  and  the  lat- 
ter thanked  him.  He  liked  Eugene  at  once  and  Eugene  liked 
him.  "A  nice  fellow  that,"  he  said,  as  he  went  back  to  his  car. 
"Think  of  how  genially  he  gave  me  these.  Lovely !  If  only  all 
men  were  as  genial  and  kindly  disposed  as  this  boy,  how  nice  the 
world  would  be."  He  put  on  the  gloves  and  found  his  work  in- 
stantly easier  for  he  could  grasp  the  joists  firmly  and  without 
pain.  He  worked  on  until  noon  when  the  whistle  blew  and  he 
ate  a  dreary  lunch  sitting  by  himself  on  one  side,  pondering. 
After  one  he  was  called  to  carry  shavings,  one  basket  after  an- 
other back  through  the  blacksmith  shop  to  the  engine  room  in  the 
rear  where  was  a  big  shaving  bin.  By  four  o'clock  he  had  seen 
almost  all  the  characters  he  was  going  to  associate  with  for  the 
time  that  he  stayed  there.  Harry  Fornes,  the  blacksmith  or  "the 
village  smith,"  as  Eugene  came  to  call  him  later  on,  Jimmy 
Sudds,  the  blacksmith's  helper  or  "maid-of-all-work"  as  he 
promptly  named  him ;  John  Peters,  the  engineer,  Malachi  Demp- 
sey,  the  driver  of  the  great  plane,  Joseph  Mews  and,  in  addition, 
carpenters,  tin-smiths,  plumbers,  painters,  and  those  few  excep- 
tional cabinet  makers  who  passed  through  the  lower  floor  now 
and  then,  men  who  were  about  the  place  from  time  to  time 
and  away  from  it  at  others — all  of  whom  took  note  of  Eugene 
at  first  as  a  curiosity. 

Eugene  was  himself  intensely  interested  in  the  men.  Harry 
Fornes  and  Jimmy  Sudds  attracted  him  especially.  The  former 
was  an  undersized  American  of  distant  Irish  extraction  who  was 
so  broad  chested,  swollen  armed,  square-jawed  and  generally  self- 
reliant  and  forceful  as  to  seem  a  minor  Titan.  He  was  re- 
markably industrious,  turning  out  a  great  deal  of  work  and 
beating  a  piece  of  iron  with  a  resounding  lick  which  could  be 
heard  all  about  the  hills  and  hollows  outside.  Jimmy  Sudds,  his 
assistant,  was  like  his  master  equally  undersized,  dirty,  gnarled, 
twisted,  his  teeth  showing  like  a  row  of  yellow  snags,  his  ears 


324  THE    '"GENIUS' 

standing  out  like  small  fans,  his  eye  askew,  but  nevertheless  with 
so  genial  a  look  in  his  face  as  to  disarm  criticism  at  once.  Every 
body  liked  Jimmy  Sudds  because  he  was  honest,  single-minded 
and  free  of  malicious  intent.  His  coat  was  three  and  his  trousers 
two  times  too  large  for  him,  and  his  shoes  were  obviously  bought 
at  a  second-hand  store,  but  he  had  the  vast  merit  of  being  a 
picture.  Eugene  was  fascinated  with  him.  He  learned  shortly 
that  Jimmy  Sudds  truly  believed  that  buffaloes  were  to  be  shot 
around  Buffalo,  New  York. 

John  Peters,  the  engineer,  was  another  character  who  fixed  his 
attention.  John  was  almost  helplessly  fat  and  was  known  for 
this  reason  as  "Big  John."  He  was  a  veritable  whale  of  a  man. 
Six  feet  tall,  weighing  over  three  hundred  pounds  and  standing 
these  summer  days  in  his  hot  engine  room,  his  shirt  off,  his  sus- 
penders down,  his  great  welts  of  fat  showing  through  his  thin 
cotton  undershirt,  he  looked  as  though  he  might  be  suffering, 
but  he  was  not.  John,  as  Eugene  soon  found  out,  did  not  take 
life  emotionally.  He  stood  mostly  in  his  engine  room  door  when 
the  shade  was  there  staring  out  on  the  glistening  wrater  of  the 
river,  occasionally  wishing  that  he  didn't  need  to  work  but  could 
lie  and  sleep  indefinitely  instead. 

"Wouldja  think  them  fellers  wrould  feel  purty  good  sittin'  out 
there  on  the  poop  deck  of  them  there  yachts  smokin'  their  per- 
fectos?"  he  once  asked  Eugene,  apropos  of  the  magnificent  private 
vessels  that  passed  up  and  down  the  river. 

"I  certainly  would,"  laughed  Eugene. 

"Aw!  Haw!  That's  the  life  fer  yer  uncle  Dudley.  I  could 
do  that  there  with  any  of  'em.  Aw!  Haw!" 

Eugene  laughed  joyously. 

"Yes,  that's  the  life,"  he  said.    "We  all  could  stand  our  share." 

Malachi  Dempsey,  the  driver  of  the  great  plane,  was  dull, 
tight-mouthed,  silent,  more  from  lack  of  ideas  than  anything 
else,  though  oyster-wise  he  had  learned  to  recede  from  all  manner 
of  harm  by  closing  his  shell  tightly.  He  knew  no  way  to  avoid 
earthly  harm  save  by  being  preternaturally  silent,  and  Eugene  saw 
this  quickly.  He  used  to  stare  at  him  for  long  periods  at  a  time, 
marvelling  at  the  curiosity  his  attitude  presented.  Eugene  him- 
self, though,  was  a  curiosity  to  the  others,  even  more  so  than 
they  to  him.  He  did  not  look  like  a  workingman  and  could  not 
be  made  to  do  so.  His  spirit  was  too  high,  his  eye  too  flashing  and 
incisive.  He  smiled  at  himself  carrying  basketful  after  basketful 
of  shavings  from  the  planing  room,  \vhere  it  rained  shavings 
and  from  which,  because  of  the  lack  of  a  shaving  blower,  they 
had  to  be  removed  back  to  the  hot  engine  room  where  Big  John 


THE    "GENIUS"  325 

presided.  The  latter  took  a  great  fancy  to  Eugene,  but  some- 
thing after  the  fashion  of  a  dog  for  a  master.  He  did  not  have 
a  single  idea  above  his  engine,  his  garden  at  home,  his  wife, 
his  children  and  his  pipe.  These  and  sleep — lots  of  it — were  his 
joys,  his  recreations,  the  totality  of  his  world. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

were  many  days  now,  three  months  all  told,  in  which 
A  Eugene  obtained  insight  into  the  workaday  world  such  as 
he  had  not  previously  had.  It  is  true  he  had  worked  before  in 
somewhat  this  fashion,  but  his  Chicago  experience  was  without 
the  broad  philosophic  insight  which  had  come  to  him  since. 
Formerly  the  hierarchies  of  power  in  the  universe  and  on  earth 
were  inexplicable  to  him — all  out  of  order;  but  here,  where  he 
saw  by  degrees  ignorant,  almost  animal  intelligence,  being  directed 
by  greater,  shrewder,  and  at  times  it  seemed  to  him  possibly 
malicious  intelligences — he  was  not  quite  sure  about  that — who 
were  so  strong  that  the  weaker  ones  must  obey  them,  he  began 
to  imagine  that  in  a  rough  way  life  might  possibly  be  ordered 
to  the  best  advantage  even  under  this  system.  It  was  true  that 
men  quarreled  here  with  each  other  as  to  who  should  be  allowed 
to  lead.  There  was  here  as  elsewhere  great  seeking  for  the 
privileges  and  honors  of  direction  and  leadership  in  such  petty 
things  as  the  proper  piling  of  lumber,  the  planing  of  boards,  the 
making  of  desks  and  chairs,  and  men  were  grimly  jealous  of  their 
talents  and  abilities  in  these  respects,  but  in  the  main  it  was  the 
jealousy  that  makes  for  ordered,  intelligent  control.  All  were 
striving  to  do  the  work  of  intelligence,  not  of  unintelligence. 
Their  pride,  however  ignorant  it  might  be,  was  in  the  superior, 
not  the  inferior.  They  might  complain  of  their  work,  snarl  at 
each  other,  snarl  at  their  bosses,  but  after  all  it  was  because 
they  were  not  able  or  permitted  to  do  the  higher  work  and  carry 
out  the  orders  of  the  higher  mind.  All  were  striving  to  do  some- 
thing in  a  better  way,  a  superior  way,  and  to  obtain  the  honors 
and  emoluments  that  come  from  doing  anything  in  a  superior 
way.  If  they  were  not  rewarded  according  to  their  estimate  of 
their  work  there  was  wrath  and  opposition  and  complaint  and 
self-pity,  but  the  work  of  the  superior  intelligence  was  the  thing 
which  each  in  his  blind,  self-seeking  way  was  apparently  trying 
to  do. 

Because  he  was  not  so  far  out  of  his  troubles  that  he  could 
be  forgetful  of  them,  and  because  he  was  not  at  all  certain  that 
his  talent  to  paint  was  ever  coming  back  to  him,  he  was  not 
as  cheerful  at  times  as  he  might  have  been ;  but  he  managed  to 
conceal  it  pretty  well.  This  one  thought  with  its  attendant 

326 


THE    "GENIUS"  327 

ills  of  probable  poverty  and  obscurity  were  terrible  to  him.  Time 
was  slipping  away  and  youth.  But  when  he  was  not  thinking  of 
this  he  was  cheerful  enough.  Besides  he  had  the  ability  to 
simulate  cheerfulness  even  when  he  did  not  feel  it.  Because  he 
did  not  permanently  belong  to  this  world  of  day  labor  and 
because  his  position  which  had  been  given  him  as  a  favor  was 
moderately  secure,  he  felt  superior  to  everything  about  him.  He 
did  not  wish  to  show  this  feeling  in  any  way — was  very  anxious 
as  a  matter  of  fact  to  conceal  it,  but  his  sense  of  superiority  and 
ultimate  indifference  to  all  these  petty  details  was  an  abiding 
thought  with  him.  He  went  to  and  fro  carrying  a  basket  of  shav- 
ings, jesting  with  "the  village  smith,"  making  friends  with 
"Big  John,"  the  engineer,  with  Joseph,  Malachi  Dempsey,  little 
Jimmy  Sudds,  in  fact  anyone  and  everyone  who  came  near  him 
who  would  be  friends.  He  took  a  pencil  one  day  at  the  noon 
hour  and  made  a  sketch  of  Harry  Fornes,  the  blacksmith,  his 
arm  upraised  at  the  anvil,  his  helper,  Jimmy  Sudds,  standing 
behind  him,  the  fire  glowing  in  the  forge.  Fornes,  who  was 
standing  beside  him,  looking  over  his  shoulder,  could  scarcely 
believe  his  eyes. 

"Wotcha  doin'?"  he  asked  Eugene  curiously,  looking  over  his 
shoulder,  for  it  was  at  the  blacksmith's  table,  in  the  sun  of  his 
window  that  he  was  sitting,  looking  out  at  the  water.  Eugene 
had  bought  a  lunch  box  and  was  carrying  with  him  daily  a 
delectable  lunch  put  up  under  Mrs.  Hibberdeirs  direction.  He 
had  eaten  his  noonday  meal  and  was  idling,  thinking  over  the 
beauty  of  the  scene,  his  peculiar  position,  the  curiosities  of  this 
shop — anything  and  everything  that  came  into  his  head. 

"Wait  a  minute,"  he  said  genially,  for  he  and  the  smith  were 
already  as  thick  as  thieves. 

The  latter  gazed  interestedly  and  finally  exclaimed : 

"W'y  that's  me,  ain't  it?" 

'Tep!"  said  Eugene. 

"Wat  are  you  goin'  to  do  with  that  wen  you  get  through  with 
it?"  asked  the  latter  avariciously. 

"I'm  going  to  give  it  to  you,  of  course." 

"Say,  I'm  much  obliged  fer  that,"  replied  the  smith  delightedly. 
"Gee,  the  wife'll  be  tickled  to  see  that.  You're  a  artist,  ain't 
cher  ?  I  hearda  them  fellers.  I  never  saw  one.  Gee,  that's  good, 
that  looks  just  like  me,  don't  it?" 

"Something,"  said  Eugene  quietly,  still  working. 

The  helper  came  in. 

"Watcha'doin'?"  he  asked. 

"He's  drawin'  a  pitcher,  ya  rube,  watchye  suppose  he's  doin'," 


328  THE    "GENIUS'' 

informed  the  blacksmith  authoritatively.  "Don't  git  too  close. 
He's  gotta  have  room." 

"Aw,  whose  crowdin'?"  asked  the  helper  irritably.  He  real- 
ized at  once  that  his  superior  was  trying  to  shove  him  in  the 
background,  this  being  a  momentous  occasion.  He  did  not  pro- 
pose that  any  such  thing  should  happen.  The  blacksmith  glared 
at  him  irritably  but  the  progress  of  the  art  work  was  too  exciting 
to  permit  of  any  immediate  opportunities  for  hostilities,  so  Jimmy 
was  allowed  to  crowd  close  and  see. 

"Ho,  ho!  that's  you,  ain't  it,"  he  asked  the  smith  curiously, 
indicating  with  a  grimy  thumb  the  exact  position  of  that  dignitary 
on  the  drawing. 

"Don't,"  said  the  latter,  loftily — "sure!  He's  gotta  have 
room." 

"An'  there's  me.  Ho!  Ho!  Gee,  I  look  swell,  don't  I? 
Ho!  ho!" 

The  little  helper's  tushes  were  showing  joyously — a  smile 
that  extended  far  about  either  side  of  his  face.  He  was  entirely 
unconscious  of  the  rebuke  administered  by  the  smith. 

"If  you're  perfectly  good,  Jimmy,"  observed  Eugene  cheerfully 
still  working,  "I  may  make  a  sketch  of  you,  sometime!" 

"Na!  Will  you?  Goon!  Say,  hully  chee.  Dat'll  be  fine, 
won't  it?  Say,  ho!  ho!  De  folks  at  home  won't  know  me.  I'd 
like  to  have  a  ting  like  dat,  say !" 

Eugene  smiled.  The  smith  was  regretful.  This  dividing  of 
honors  was  not  quite  all  that  it  might  be.  Still  his  own  picture 
was  delightful.  It  looked  exactly  like  the  shop.  Eugene  worked 
until  the  whistle  blew  and  the  belts  began  to  slap  and  the  wheels 
to  whirr.  Then  he  got  up. 

"There  you  are,  Fornes,"  he  said.    "Like  it?" 

"Gee,  it's  swell,"  said  the  latter  and  carried  it  to  the  locker. 
He  took  it  out  after  a  bit  though  and  hung  it  up  over  his  bench 
on  the  wall  opposite  his  forge,  for  he  wanted  everyone  to  see. 
It  was  one  of  the  most  significant  events  in  his  life.  This  sketch 
was  the  subject  immediately  of  a  perfect  storm  of  discussion. 
Eugene  was  an  artist — could  draw  pictures — that  was  a  revelation 
in  itself.  Then  this  picture  was  so  life-like.  It  looked  like 
Fornes  and  Sudds  and  the  shop.  Everyone  was  interested. 
Everyone  jealous.  They  could  not  understand  how  God  had 
favored  the  smith  in  this  manner.  Why  hadn't  Eugene  sketched 
them  before  he  did  him?  Why  didn't  he  immediately  offer  to 
sketch  them  now?  Big  John  came  first,  tipped  off  and  piloted 
by  Jimmy  Sudds. 

"Say!"   he  said  his  big  round   eyes   popping   with   surprise. 


THE   '"GENIUS"  329 

"There's  some  class  to  that,  what?  That  looks  like  you,  Fornes. 
Jinged  if  it  don't!  An*  Suddsy!  Bless  me  if  there  ain't  Suddsy. 
Say,  there  you  are,  kid,  natural  as  life,  damned  if  you  ain't. 
That's  fine.  You  oughta  keep  that,  smith." 

"I  intend  to,"  said  the  latter  proudly. 

Big  John  went  back  to  his  engine  room  regretfully.  Next 
came  Joseph  Mews,  his  shoulders  humped,  his  head  bobbing 
like  a  duck,  for  he  had  this  habit  of  nodding  \vhen  he  walked. 

"Say,  wot  d'ye  thinka  that?"  he  asked.  "Ain't  that  fine.  He 
kin  drawr  jist  as  good  as  they  do  in  them  there  magazines.  I  see 
them  there  things  in  them,  now  an'  then.  Ain't  that  swell? 
Lookit  Suddsy  back  in  there.  Eh,  Suddsy,  you're  in  right, 
all  right.  I  wisht  he'd  make  a  picture  o'  us  out  there.  We're 
just  as  good  as  you  people.  Wats  the  matter  with  us,  eh?" 

"Oh,  he  ain't  goin'  to  be  bothered  makin'  pitchers  of  you 
mokes,"  replied  the  smith  jestingly.  "He  only  draws  real  ones. 
You  want  to  remember  that,  Mews.  He's  gotta  have  good  people 
to  make  sketches  of.  None  o'  your  half-class  plane-drivers  and 
jig-saw  operators." 

"Is  that  so?  Is  that  so?"  replied  Joseph  contemptuously, 
his  love  of  humor  spurred  by  the  slight  cast  upon  his  ability. 
"Well  if  he  was  lookin'  for  real  ones  he  made  a  mistake  wen  he 
come  here.  They're  all  up  front.  You  don't  want  to  forget  that, 
smith.  They  don't  live  in  no  blacksmith's  shop  as  I  ever  seen  it." 

"Cut  it  out!  Cut  it  out!"  called  little  Sudds  from  a  position 
of  vantage  near  the  door.  "Here  comes  the  boss,"  and  Joseph 
immediately  pretended  to  be  going  to  the  engine  room  for  a 
drink.  The  smith  blew  up  his  fire  as  though  it  were  necessary 
to  heat  the  iron  he  had  laid  in  the  coals.  Jack  Stix  came  ambling 
by. 

"Who  did  that?"  he  asked,  stopping  after  a  single  general, 
glance  and  looking  at  the  sketch  on  the  wall. 

"Mr.  Witla,   the  new  man,"   replied   the  smith,   reverently. 

"Say,  that's  pretty  good,  ain't  it?"  the  foreman  replied  pleas- 
antly. "He  did  that  well.  He  must  be  an  artist." 

"I  think  he  is,"  replied  the  smith,  cautiously.  He  was  always 
eager  to  curry  favor  with  the  boss.  He  came  near  to  his  side 
and  looked  over  his  arm.  "He  done  it  here  today  at  noon  in 
about  a  half  an  hour." 

"Say,  that's  pretty  good  now,"  and  the  foreman  went  on  his 
way,  thinking. 

If  Eugene  could  do  that,  why  was  he  here?  It  must  be  his 
run  down  condition,  sure  enough.  And  he  must  be  the  friend  of 
someone  high  in  authority.  He  had  better  be  civil.  Hitherto 


330  THE    "GENIUS" 

he  had  stood  in  suspicious  awe  of  Eugene,  not  knowing  what  to 
make  of  him.  He  could  not  figure  out  just  why  he  was  here — 
a  spy  possibly.  Now  he  thought  that  he  might  be  mistaken. 

"Don't  let  him  work  too  hard,"  he  told  Bill  and  John.  "He 
ain't  any  too  strong  yet.  He  came  up  here  for  his  health." 

He  was  obeyed  in  this  respect,  for  there  was  no  gain-saying  the 
wishes  of  a  foreman,  but  this  open  plea  for  consideration  was  the 
one  thing  if  any  which  could  have  weakened  Eugene's  popularity. 
The  men  did  not  like  the  foreman.  He  would  have  been  stronger 
at  any  time  in  the  affections  of  the  men  if  the  foreman  had 
been  less  markedly  considerate  or  against  him  entirely. 

The  days  which  followed  were  restful  enough  though  hard,  for 
Eugene  found  that  the  constant  whirl  of  work  which  went  on 
here,  and  of  which  he  had  naturally  to  do  his  share,  was  beneficial 
to  him.  For  the  first  time  in  several  years  he  slept  soundly.  He 
would  don  his  suit  of  blue  overalls  and  jumper  in  the  morning  a 
few  minutes  before  the  whistle  blew  at  seven  and  from  then 
on  until  noon,  and  from  one  o'clock  until  six  he  would  carry 
shavings,  pile  lumber  for  one  or  several  of  the  men  in  the  yard, 
load  or  unload  cars,  help  Big  John  stoke  his  boilers,  or  carry  chips 
and  shavings  from  the  second  floor.  He  wore  an  old  hat  which 
he  had  found  in  a  closet  at  Mrs.  Hibberdell's,  a  faded,  crumpled 
memory  of  a  soft  tan-colored  sombrero  which  he  punched  jauntily 
to  a  peak  and  wore  over  one  ear.  He  had  big  new  yellow 
gloves  which  he  kept  on  his  hands  all  day,  which  were  creased 
and  frayed,  but  plenty  good  enough  for  this  shop  and  yard.  He 
learned  to  handle  lumber  nicely,  to  pile  with  skill,  to  "take"  for 
Malachi  Dempsey  from  the  plane,  to  drive  the  jig-saw,  and  other 
curious  bits.  He  was  tireless  in  his  energy  because  he  was  weary 
of  thinking  and  hoped  by  sheer  activity  to  beat  down  and  over- 
come his  notion  of  artistic  inability — to  forget  that  he  believed 
that  he  couldn't  paint  and  so  be  able  to  paint  again.  He  had 
surprised  himself  in  these  sketches  he  had  made,  for  his  first  feel- 
ing under  the  old  regime  would  have  been  that  he  could  not 
make  them.  Here,  because  the  men  were  so  eager  and  he  was  so 
much  applauded,  he  found  it  rather  easy  and,  strange  to  say, 
he  thought  they  were  good. 

At  the  home  of  Mrs.  Hibberdell  at  night  he  would  lay  off 
all  his  working  clothes  before  dinner,  take  a  cold  bath  and  don  a 
new  brown  suit,  which  because  of  the  assurance  of  this  position 
he  had  bought  for  eighteen  dollars,  ready  made.  He  found  it 
hard  to  get  off  to  buy  anything,  for  his  pay  ceased  (fifteen  cents 
an  hour)  the  moment  he  left  the  shop.  He  had  put  his  pictures 


THE    "GENIUS'  331 

in  storage  in  New  York  and  could  not  get  off  (or  at  least  did  not 
want  to  take  the  time  off)  to  go  and  sell  any.  He  found  that  he 
could  leave  without  question  if  he  wanted  no  pay,  but  if  he 
wanted  pay  and  had  a  good  reason  he  could  sometimes  be  excused. 
His  appearance  about  the  house  and  yard  after  six-thirty  in  the 
evening  and  on  Sundays  was  attractive  enough.  He  looked 
delicate,  refined,  conservative,  and,  when  not  talking  to  someone, 
rather  wistful.  He  was  lonely  and  restless,  for  he  felt  terribly 
out  of  it.  This  house  was  lonely.  As  at  Alexandria,  before  he 
met  Frieda,  he  wras  wishing  there  were  some  girls  about.  He 
wondered  where  Frieda  was,  what  she  was  doing,  whether  she  had 
married.  He  hoped  not.  If  life  had  only  given  him  a  girl  like 
Frieda — so  young,  so  beautiful!  He  would  sit  and  gaze  at  the 
water  after  dark  in  the  moonlight,  for  this  was  his  one  consolation 
— the  beauty  of  nature — thinking.  How  lovely  it  all  was!  How 
lovely  life  was, — this  village,  the  summer  trees,  the  shop  where 
he  worked,  the  water,  Joseph,  little  Jimmy,  Big  John,  the  stars. 
If  he  could  paint  again,  if  he  could  be  in  love  again.  In  love! 
In  love!  Was  there  any  other  sensation  in  the  world  like  that 
of  being  in  love? 

A  spring  evening,  say,  some  soft  sweet  odours  blowing  as  they 
were  tonight,  the  dark  trees  bending  down,  or  the  twilight  an- 
gelically silver,  hyacinth,  orange,  some  soothing  murmurs  of  the 
wind ;  some  faint  chirping  of  the  tree-toads  or  frogs  and  then  your 
girl.  Dear  God!  Could  anything  be  finer  than  that?  Was 
anything  else  in  life  worth  while?  Your  girl,  her  soft  young 
arms  about  your  neck,  her  lips  to  yours  in  pure  love,  her  eyes 
speaking  like  twin  pools  of  color  here  in  the  night. 

So  had  it  been  only  a  little  while  ago  with  Frieda.  So  had 
it  been  once  with  Angela.  So  long  ago  with  Stella !  Dear,  sweet 
Stella,  how  nice  she  was.  And  now  here  he  was  sick  and  lonely 
and  married  and  Angela  would  be  coming  back  soon — and — 
He  would  get  up  frequently  to  shut  out  these  thoughts,  and  either 
read  or  walk  or  go  to  bed.  But  he  was  lonely,  almost  irritably  so. 
There  was  only  one  true  place  of  comfort  for  Eugene  any- 
where and  that  was  in  the  spring  time  in  love. 


CHAPTER   XXII 

IT  was  while  he  was  mooning  along  in  this  mood,  working, 
dreaming,  wishing,  that  there  came,  one  day  to  her  mother's 
house  at  Riverwood,  Carlotta  Wilson, — Mrs.  Norman  Wilson, 
in  the  world  in  which  she  moved — a  tall  brunette  of  thirty-two, 
handsome  after  the  English  fashion,  shapely,  graceful,  with  a 
knowledge  of  the  world  which  was  not  only  compounded  of 
natural  intelligence  and  a  sense  of  humor,  but  experiences  fortu- 
nate and  unfortunate  which  had  shown  her  both  the  showy  and 
the  seamy  sides  of  life.  To  begin  with  she  was  the  wife  of  a 
gambler — a  professional  gambler — of  that  peculiar  order  which 
essays  the  role  of  a  gentleman,  looks  the  part,  and  fleeces  un- 
mercifully the  unwary  partakers  of  their  companionship.  Car- 
lotta Hibberdell,  living  with  her  mother  at  that  time  in  Spring- 
field, Massachusetts,  had  met  him  at  a  local  series  of  races,  which 
she  was  attending  with  her  father  and  mother,  where  Wilson 
happened  to  be  accidentally  upon  another  mission.  Her  father, 
a  real  estate  dealer,  and  fairly  successful  at  one  time,  was  very 
much  interested  in  racing  horses,  and  owned  several  of  worthy 
records  though  of  no  great  fame.  Norman  Wilson  had  posed  as 
a  real  estate  speculator  himself,  and  had  handled  several  fairly 
successful  deals  in  land,  but  his  principal  skill  and  reliance  was 
in  gambling.  He  was  familiar  with  all  the  gambling  op- 
portunities of  the  city,  knew  a  large  circle  of  those  who  liked 
to  gamble,  men  and  women  in  New  York  and  elsewhere,  and 
his  luck  or  skill  at  times  was  phenomenal.  At  other  times  it  was 
very  bad.  There  were  periods  when  he  could  afford  to  live  in 
the  most  expensive  apartment  houses,  dine  at  the  best  restaurants, 
visit  the  most  expensive  country  pleasure  resorts  and  othenvise 
disport  himself  in  the  companionship  of  friends.  At  other 
times,  because  of  bad  luck,  he  could  not  afford  any  of  these 
things  and  though  he  held  to  his  estate  grimly  had  to  borrow 
money  to  do  it.  He  was  somewhat  of  a  fatalist  in  his  interpre- 
tation of  affairs  and  would  hang  on  with  the  faith  that  his  luck 
would  turn.  It  did  turn  invariably,  of  course,  for  when  difficul- 
ties began  to  swarm  thick  and  fast  he  would  think  vigorously 
and  would  usually  evolve  some  idea  which  served  to  help  him 
out.  His  plan  was  always  to  spin  a  web  like  a  spider  and  await 
the  blundering  flight  of  some  unwary  fly. 

332 


THE  "GENIUS'  .333 

At  the  time  she  married  him  Carlotta  Hibberdell  did  not  know 
of  the  peculiar  tendencies  and  subtle  obsession  of  her  ardent 
lover.  Like  all  men  of  his  type  he  was  suave,  persuasive,  passion- 
ate, eager.  There  was  a  certain  cat-like  magnetism  about  him 
also  which  fascinated  her.  She  could  not  understand  him  at  that 
time  and  she  never  did  afterwards.  The  license  which  he  sub- 
sequently manifested  not  only  with  her  but  with  others  astonished 
and  disgusted  her.  She  found  him  selfish,  domineering,  outside 
his  own  particular  field  shallow,  not  at  all  artistic,  emotional,  or 
poetic.  He  was  inclined  to  insist  on  the  last  touch  of  material 
refinement  in  surroundings  (so  far  as  he  understood  them)  when 
he  had  money,  but  she  found  to  her  regret  that  he  did  not  un- 
derstand them.  In  his  manner  with  her  and  everyone  else  he 
was  top-lofty,  superior,  condescending.  His  stilted  language  at 
times  enraged  and  at  other  times  amused  her,  and  when  her 
original  passion  passed  and  she  began  to  see  through  his  pretence 
to  his  motives  and  actions  she  became  indifferent  and  then  weary. 
She  was  too  big  a  woman  mentally  to  quarrel  with  him  much. 
She  was  too  indifferent  to  life  in  its  totality  to  really  care.  Her 
one  passion  was  for  an  ideal  lover  of  some  type,  and  having  been 
thoroughly  mistaken  in  him  she  looked  abroad  wondering  whether 
there  were  any  ideal  men. 

Various  individuals  came  to  their  apartments.  There  were 
gamblers,  blase  society  men,  mining  experts,  speculators,  some- 
times with,  sometimes  without  a  wife.  From  these  and  from 
her  husband  and  her  own  observation  she  learned  of  all  sorts 
of  scoundrels,  mes-alliances,  queer  manifestations  of  incompati- 
bility of  temper,  queer  freaks  of  sex  desire.  Because  she  was 
good  looking,  graceful,  easy  in  her  manners,  there  were  no  end  of 
proposals,  overtures,  hints  and  luring  innuendos  cast  in  her  direc- 
tion. She  had  long  been  accustomed  to  them.  Because  her  hus- 
band deserted  her  openly  for  other  women  and  confessed  it  in  a 
blase  way  she  saw  no  valid  reason  for  keeping  herself  from  other 
men.  She  chose  her  lovers  guardedly  and  with  subtle  taste,  be- 
ginning after  mature  deliberation  with  one  who  pleased  her 
greatly.  She  was  seeking  refinement,  emotion,  understanding 
coupled  with  some  ability  and  they  were  not  so  easy  to  find.  The 
long  record  of  her  liaisons  is  not  for  this  story,  but  their  im- 
press on  her  character  was  important. 

She  was  indifferent  in  her  manner  at  most  times  and  to  most 
people.  A  good  jest  or  story  drew  from  her  a  hearty  laugh. 
She  was  not  interested  in  books  except  those  of  a  very  exceptional 
character — the  realistic  school — and  these  she  thought  ought  not 
to  be  permitted  except  to  private  subscribers,  nevertheless  she 


334  THE    "GENIUS" 

cared  for  no  others.  Art  was  fascinating — really  great  art.  She 
loved  the  pictures  of  Rembrandt,  Frans  Hals,  Correggio,  Titian. 
And  with  less  discrimination,  and  more  from  a  sensual  point  of 
view  the  nudes  of  Cabanel,  Bouguereau  and  Gerome.  To  her 
there  was  reality  in  the  works  of  these  men,  lightened  by  great 
imagination.  Mostly  people  interested  her,  the  vagaries  of  their 
minds,  the  idiosyncrasies  of  their  characters,  their  lies,  their  sub- 
terfuges, their  pretences,  their  fears.  She  knew  that  she  was  a 
dangerous  woman  and  went  softly,  like  a  cat,  wearing  a  half- 
smile  not  unlike  that  seen  on  the  lips  of  Monna  Lisa,  but  she 
did  not  worry  about  herself.  She  had  too  much  courage.  At 
the  same  time  she  was  tolerant,  generous  to  a  fault,  charitable. 
When  someone  suggested  that  she  overdid  the  tolerance,  she 
replied,  "Why  shouldn't  I?  I  live  in  such  a  magnificent  glass 
house." 

The  reason  for  her  visit  home  on  this  occasion  was  that  her 
husband  had  practically  deserted  her  for  the  time  being.  He  was 
in  Chicago  for  some  reason — principally  because  the  atmosphere 
in  New  York  was  getting  too  hot  for  him,  as  she  suspected. 
Because  she  hated  Chicago  and  was  weary  of  his  company  she 
refused  to  go  with  him.  He  was  furious  for  he  suspected  her 
of  liaisons,  but  he  could  not  help  himself.  She  was  indifferent. 
Besides  she  had  other  resources  than  those  he  represented,  or 
could  get  them. 

A  certain  wealthy  Jew  had  been  importuning  her  for  years 
to  get  a  divorce  in  order  that  he  might  marry  her.  His  car 
and  his  resources  were  at  her  command  but  she  condescended  only 
the  vaguest  courtesies.  It  was  within  the  ordinary  possibilities 
of  the  day  for  him  to  call  her  up  and  ask  if  he  could  not  come 
with  his  car.  He  had  three.  She  waved  most  of  this  aside  in- 
differently. "What's  the  use?"  was  her  pet  inquiry.  Her  hus- 
band was  not  without  his  car  at  times.  She  had  means  to  drive 
when  she  pleased,  dress  as  she  liked,  and  was  invited  to  many  in- 
teresting outings.  Her  mother  knew  well  of  her  peculiar  attitude, 
her  marital  troubles,  her  quarrels  and  her  tendency  to  flirt.  She 
did  her  best  to  keep  her  in  check,  for  she  wanted  to  retain  for 
her  the  privilege  of  obtaining  a  divorce  and  marrying  again,  the 
next  time  successfully.  Norman  Wilson,  however,  would  not 
readily  give  her  a  legal  separation  even  though  the  preponderance 
of  evidence  was  against  him  and,  if  she  compromised  herself,  there 
would  be  no  hope.  She  half  suspected  that  her  daughter  might 
already  have  compromised  herself,  but  she  could  not  be  sure. 
Carlotta  was  too  subtle.  Norman  made  open  charges  in  their 


THE    "GENIUS"  335 

family  quarrels,  but  they  were  based  largely  on  jealousy.  He 
did  not  know  for  sure. 

Carlotta  Wilson  had  heard  of  Eugene.  She  did  not  know  of 
him  by  reputation,  but  her  mother's  guarded  remarks  in  regard  to 
him  and  his  presence,  the  fact  that  he  was  an  artist,  that  he  was 
sick  and  working  as  a  laborer  for  his  health  aroused  her  in- 
terest. She  had  intended  to  spend  the  period  of  her  husband's 
absence  at  Narragansett  with  some  friends,  but  before  doing  so 
she  decided  to  come  home  for  a  few  days  just  to  see  for  herself. 
Instinctively  her  mother  suspected  curiosity  on  her  part  in  regard 
to  Eugene.  She  threw  out  the  remark  that  he  might  not  stay 
long,  in  the  hope  that  her  daughter  might  lose  interest.  His 
wife  was  coming  back.  Carlotta  discerned  this  opposition — this 
desire  to  keep  her  away.  She  decided  that  she  would  come. 

"I  don't  know  that  I  want  to  go  to  Narragansett  just  now," 
she  told  her  mother.  "I'm  tired.  Norman  has  just  worn  my 
nerves  to  a  frazzle.  I  think  I'll  come  up  home  for  a  week  or  so." 

"All  right,"  said  her  mother,  "but  do  be  careful  how  you  act 
now.  This  Mr.  Witla  appears  to  be  a  very  nice  man  and  he's 
happily  married.  Don't  you  go  casting  any  looks  in  his  direction. 
If  you  do  I  won't  let  him  stay  here  at  all." 

"Oh,  how  you  talk,"  replied  Carlotta  irritably.  "Do  give 
me  a  little  credit  for  something.  I'm  not  going  up  there  to 
see  him.  I'm  tired,  I  tell  you.  If  you  don't  want  me  to  come 
I  won't." 

"It  isn't  that,  I  do  want  you.  But  you  know  how  you  are. 
How  do  you  ever  expect  to  get  free  if  you  don't  conduct  yourself 
circumspectly  ?  You  know  that  you — 

"Oh,  for  heaven's  sake,  I  hope  you're  not  going  to  start  that 
old  argument  again,"  exclaimed  Carlotta  defensively.  "What's 
the  use  beginning  on  that?  We've  been  all  over  it  a  thousand 
times.  I  can't  go  anywhere  or  do  anything  but  what  you  want 
to  fuss.  Now  I'm  not  coming  up  there  to  do  anything  but  rest. 
Why  will  you  always  start  in  to  spoil  everything?" 

"Well  now,  you  know  well  enough,  Carlotta — "  reiterated 
her  mother. 

"Oh,  chuck  it.  I'll  not  come.  To  hell  with  the  house.  I'll 
go  to  Narragansett.  You  make  me  tired !" 

Her  mother  looked  at  her  tall  daughter,  graceful,  handsome, 
her  black  hair  parted  in  rich  folds,  irritated  and  yet  pleased  with 
her  force  and  ability.  If  she  would  only  be  prudent  and  careful, 
what  a  figure  she  might  yet  become!  Her  complexion  was  like 
old  rose-tinted  ivory,  her  lips  the  color  of  dark  raspberries,  her 


336  THE    "GENIUS" 

eyes  bluish  grey,  wide  set,  large,  sympathetic,  kindly.  What  a 
pity  she  had  not  married  some  big,  worthy  man  to  begin  with.  To 
be  tied  up  to  this  gambler,  even  though  they  did  live  in  Central 
Park  West  and  had  a  comparatively  sumptuous  apartment,  was 
a  wretched  thing.  Still  it  was  better  than  poverty  or  scandal, 
though  if  she  did  not  take  care  of  herself  both  might  ensue.  She 
wanted  her  to  come  to  Riverwood  for  she  liked  her  company,  but 
she  wanted  her  to  behave  herself.  Perhaps  Eugene  would  save 
the  day.  He  was  certainly  restrained  enough  in  his  manner  and 
remarks.  She  went  back  to  Riverwood,  and  Carlotta,  the  quarrel 
smoothed  over,  followed  her. 

Eugene  did  not  see  her  during  the  day  she  arrived,  for  he  was 
at  work ;  and  she  did  not  see  him  as  he  came  in  at  night.  He  had 
on  his  old  peaked  hat  and  carried  his  handsome  leather  lunch  box 
jauntily  in  one  hand.  He  went  to  his  room,  bathed,  dressed  and 
then  out  on  the  porch  to  await  the  call  of  the  dinner  gong.  Mrs. 
Hibberdell  was  in  her  room  on  the  second  floor  and  "Cousin 
Dave,"  as  Carlotta  called  Simpson,  was  in  the  back  yard.  It  was 
a  lovely  twilight.  He  was  in  the  midst  of  deep  thoughts  about 
the  beauty  of  the  scene,  his  own  loneliness,  the  characters  at 
the  shop-work,  Angela  and  what  not,  when  the  screen  door  opened 
and  she  stepped  out.  She  had  on  a  short-sleeved  house  dress 
of  spotted  blue  silk  with  yellow  lace  set  about  the  neck  and  the 
ends  of  the  sleeves.  Her  shapely  figure,  beautifully  proportioned 
to  her  height,  was  set  in  a  smooth,  close  fitting  corset.  Her  hair, 
laid  in  great  braids  at  the  back,  was  caught  in  a  brown  spangled 
net.  She  carried  herself  with  thoughtfulness  and  simplicity, 
seeming  naturally  indifferent. 

Eugene  rose.  "I'm  in  your  way,  I  think.  Won't  you  have 
this  chair?" 

"No,  thanks.  The  one  in  the  corner  will  do.  But  I  might  as 
well  introduce  myself,  since  there  isn't  anyone  here  to  do  it. 
I'm  Mrs.  Wilson,  Mrs.  Hibberdell's  daughter.  You're  Mr. 
\Vitla?" 

"Yes,  I  answer  to  that,"  said  Eugene,  smiling.  He  was  not 
very  much  impressed  at  first.  She  seemed  nice  and  he  fancied 
intelligent — a  little  older  than  he  would  have  preferred  any 
woman  to  be  who  was  to  interest  him.  She  sat  down  and  looked 
at  the  water.  He  took  his  chair  and  held  his  peace.  He  was 
not  even  interested  to  talk  to  her.  She  was  nice  to  look  at,  how- 
ever. Her  presence  lightened  the  scene  for  him. 

"I  always  like  to  come  up  here,"  she  volunteered  finally.  "It's 
so  warm  in  the  city  these  days.  I  don't  think  many  people  know 
of  this  place.  It's  out  of  the  beaten  track." 


THE    "GENIUS"  337 

"I  enjoy  it,"  said  Eugene.  "It's  such  a  rest  for  me.  I  don't 
know  what  I  would  have  done  if  your  mother  hadn't  taken  me  in. 
It's  rather  hard  to  find  any  place,  doing  what  I  am." 

"You've  taken  a  pretty  strenuous  way  to  get  health,  I  should 
say,"  she  observed.  "Day  labor  sounds  rough  to  me.  Do  you 
mind  it?" 

"Not  at  all.  I  like  it.  The  work  is  interesting  and  not  so 
very  hard.  It's  all  so  new  to  me,  that's  what  makes  it  easy.  I 
like  the  idea  of  being  a  day  laborer  and  associating  with  laborers. 
It's  only  because  I'm  run  down  in  health  that  I  worry.  I  don't 
like  to  be  sick." 

"It  is  bad,"  she  replied,  "but  this  will  probably  put  you  on  your 
feet.  I  think  we're  always  inclined  to  look  on  our  present 
troubles  as  the  worst.  I  know  I  am." 

"Thanks  for  the  consolation,"  he  said. 

She  did  not  look  at  him  and  he  rocked  to  and  fro  silently. 
Finally  the  dinner  gong  struck.  Mrs.  Hibberdell  came  down 
stairs  and  they  went  in. 

.  The  conversation  at  dinner  turned  on  his  work  for  a  few  mo- 
ments and  he  described  accurately  the  personalities  of  John  and 
Bill  and  Big  John  the  engineer,  and  little  Suddsy  and  Harry 
Fornes,  the  blacksmith.  Carlotta  listened  attentively  without  ap- 
pearing to,  for  everything  about  Eugene  seemed  singular  and 
exceptional  to  her.  She  liked  his  tall,  spare  body,  his  lean  hands* 
his  dark  hair  and  eyes.  She  liked  the  idea  of  his  dressing  as  a 
laboring  man  in  the  morning,  working  all  day  in  the  shop,  and 
yet  appearing  so  neat  and  trim  at  dinner.  He  was  easy  in  his 
manner,  apparently  lethargic  in  his  movements  and  yet  she  could 
feel  a  certain  swift  force  that  filled  the  room.  It  was  richer 
for  his  presence.  She  understood  at  a  glance  that  he  was  an 
artist,  in  all  probability  a  good  one.  He  said  nothing  of  that, 
avoided  carefully  all  reference  to  his  art,  and  listened  attentively. 
She  felt  though  as  if  he  were  studying  her  and  everyone  else,  and 
it  made  her  gayer.  At  the  same  time  she  had  a  strong  leaning 
toward  him.  "What  an  ideal  man  to  be  associated  with,"  was 
one  of  her  repeated  thoughts. 

Although  she  was  about  the  house  for  ten  days  and  he  met 
her  after  the  third  morning  not  only  at  dinner,  which  was  natural 
enough,  but  at  breakfast  (which  surprised  him  a  little),  he  paid 
not  so  very  much  attention  to  her.  She  was  nice,  very,  but  Eu- 
gene was  thinking  of  another  type.  He  thought  she  was  uncom- 
monly pleasant  and  considerate  and  he  admired  her  style  of 
dressing  and  her  beauty,  studying  her  with  interest,  wondering 
what  sort  of  a  life  she  led,  for  from  various  bits  of  conversation 


338  THE    "GENIUS'1 

he  overheard  not  only  at  table  but  at  other  times  he  judged  she 
was  fairly  well  to  do.  There  was  an  apartment  in  Central  Park 
West,  card  parties,  automobile  parties,  theatre  parties  and  a 
general  sense  of  people — acquaintances  anyhow,  who  were  making 
money.  He  heard  her  tell  of  a  mining  engineer,  Dr.  Rowland; 
of  a  successful  coal-mining  speculator,  Gerald  Woods;  of  a 
Mrs.  Hale  who  was  heavily  interested  in  copper  mines  and  ap- 
parently very  wealthy.  "It's  a  pity  Norman  couldn't  connect 
with  something  like  that  and  make  some  real  money,"  he  heard 
her  say  to  her  mother  one  evening.  He  understood  that  Norman 
was  her  husband  and  that  he  probably  would  be  back  soon.  So 
he  kept  his  distance — interested  and  curious  but  hardly  more. 

Mrs.  Wilson  was  not  so  easily  baffled,  however.  A  car  ap- 
peared one  evening  at  the  door  immediately  after  dinner,  a  great 
red  touring  car,  and  Mrs.  Wilson  announced  easily,  "We're 
going  for  a  little  spin  after  dinner,  Mr.  Witla.  Don't  you  want 
to  come  along?" 

Eugene  had  never  ridden  in  an  automobile  at  that  time.  "I'd 
be  very  pleased,"  he  said,  for  the  thought  of  a  lonely  evening 
in  an  empty  house  had  sprung  up  when  he  saw  it  appear. 

There  was  a  chauffeur  in  charge — a  gallant  figure  in  a  brown 
straw  cap  and  tan  duster,  but  Mrs.  Wilson  manoeuvred  for 
place. 

"You  sit  with  the  driver,  coz,"  she  said  to  Simpson,  and  when 
her  mother  stepped  in  she  followed  after,  leaving  Eugene  the 
place  to  the  right  of  her. 

"There  must  be  a  coat  and  cap  in  the  locker,"  she  said  to  the 
chauffeur;  "let  Mr.  Witla  have  it." 

The  latter  extracted  a  spare  linen  coat  and  straw  cap  which 
Eugene  put  on. 

"I  like  automobiling,  don't  you?"  she  said  to  Eugene  good- 
naturedly.  "It's  so  refreshing.  If  there  is  any  rest  from  care 
on  this  earth  it's  in  traveling  fast." 

"I've  never  ridden  before,"  replied  Eugene  simply.  Some- 
thing about  the  way  he  said  it  touched  her.  She  felt  sorry  for 
him  because  he  appeared  lonely  and  gloomy.  His  indifference  to 
her  piqued  her  curiosity  and  irritated  her  pride.  Why  shouldn't 
he  take  an  interest  in  her?  As  they  sped  under  leafy  lanes,  up 
hill  and  down  dale,  she  made  out  his  face  in  the  starlight.  It  was 
pale,  reflective,  indifferent.  "These  deep  thinkers!"  she  chided 
him.  "It's  terrible  to  be  a  philosopher."  Eugene  smiled. 

When  they  reached  home  he  went  to  his  room  as  did  all  the 
others  to  theirs.  He  stepped  out  into  the  hall  a  few  minutes  later 
to  go  to  the  library  for  a  book,  and  found  that  her  door  which 


THE    '"GENIUS"  339 

he  had  to  pass  was  wide  open.  She  was  sitting  back  in  a  Morris 
chair,  her  feet  upon  another  chair,  her  skirts  slightly  drawn  up 
revealing  a  trim  foot  and  ankle.  She  did  not  stir  but  looked  up 
and  smiled  winningly. 

"Aren't  you  tired  enough  to  sleep?"  he  asked. 

"Not  quite  yet,"  she  smiled. 

He  went  down  stairs  and  turning  on  a  light  in  the  library 
stood  looking  at  a  row  of  books  reading  the  titles.  He  heard 
a  step  and  there  she  was  looking  at  the  books  also. 

"Don't  you  want  a  bottle  of  beer?"  she  asked.  "I  think  there 
is  some  in  the  ice  box.  I  forgot  that  you  might  be  thirsty." 

"I  really  don't  care,"  he  said.  "I'm  not  much  for  drinks  of 
any  kind." 

"That's  not  very  sociable,"  she  laughed. 

"Let's  have  the  beer  then,"  he  said. 

She  threw  herself  back  languidly  in  one  of  the  big  dining 
room  chairs  when  she  had  brought  the  drinks  and  some  Swiss 
cheese  and  crackers,  and  said :  "I  think  you'll  find  some  cigarettes 
on  the  table  in  the  corner  if  you  like." 

He  struck  her  a  match  and  she  puffed  her  cigarette  comfort- 
ably. "I  suppose  you  find  it  lonely  up  here  away  from  all  your 
friends  and  companions,"  she  volunteered. 

"Oh,  I've  been  sick  so  long  I  scarcely  know  whether  I  have 
any." 

He  described  some  of  his  imaginary  ailments  and  experiences 
and  she  listened  to  him  attentively.  When  the  beer  was  gone 
she  asked  him  if  he  would  have  more  but  he  said  no.  After 
a  time  because  he  stirred  wearily,  she  got  up. 

"Your  mother  will  think  we're  running  some  sort  of  a  mid- 
night game  down  here,"  he  volunteered. 

"Mother  can't  hear,"  she  said.  "Her  room  is  on  the  third 
floor  and  besides  she  doesn't  hear  very  well.  Dave  don't  mind. 
He  knows  me  well  enough  by  now  to  know  that  I  do  as  I 
please." 

She  stood  closer  to  Eugene  but  still  he  did  not  see.  When 
he  moved  away  she  put  out  the  lights  and  followed  him  to  the 
stairs. 

"He's  either  the  most  bashful  or  the  most  indifferent  of  men," 
she  thought,  but  she  said  softly,  "Good-night.  Pleasant  dreams 
to  you,"  and  went  her  way. 

Eugene  thought  of  her  now  as  a  good  fellow,  a  little  gay  for 
a  married  woman,  but  probably  circumspect  withal.  She  was 
simply  being  nice  to  him.  All  this  was  simply  because,  as  yet,  he 
was  not  very  much  interested. 


340  THE   "GENIUS" 

There  were  other  incidents.  One  morning  he  passed  her  door. 
Her  mother  had  already  gone  down  to  breakfast  and  there  was 
the  spectacle  of  a  smooth,  shapely  arm  and  shoulder  quite  bare 
to  his  gaze  as  she  lay  on  her  pillow  apparently  unconscious  that 
her  door  was  open.  It  thrilled  him  as  something  sensuously  beau- 
tiful for  it  was  a  perfect  arm.  Another  time  he  saw  her  of  an 
evening  just  before  dinner  buttoning  her  shoes.  Her  dress  was 
pulled  three-quarters  of  the  way  to  her  knees  and  her  shoulders 
and  arms  wrere  bare,  for  she  was  still  in  her  corset  and  short 
skirts.  She  seemed  not  to  know  that  he  was  near.  One  night 
after  dinner  he  started  to  whistle  something  and  she  went  to 
the  piano  to  keep  him  company.  Another  time  he  hummed  on 
the  porch  and  she  started  the  same  song,  singing  with  him.  He 
drew  his  chair  near  the  window  where  there  was  a  couch  after 
her  mother  had  retired  for  the  night,  and  she  came  and  threw 
herself  on  it.  "You  don't  mind  if  I  lie  here?"  she  said,  "I'm 
tired  tonight." 

"Not  at  all.    I'm  glad  of  your  company.    I'm  lonely." 

She  lay  and  stared  at  him,  smiling.  He  hummed  and  she 
sang.  "Let  me  see  your  palm,"  she  said,  "I  want  to  learn  some- 
thing." He  held  it  out.  She  fingered  it  temptingly.  Even  this 
did  not  wake  him. 

She  left  for  five  days  because  of  some  necessity  in  connection 
with  her  engagements  and  when  she  returned  he  was  glad  to  see 
her.  He  had  been  lonesome,  and  he  knew  now  that  she  made 
the  house  gayer.  He  greeted  her  genially. 

"I'm  glad  to  see  you  back,"  he  said. 

"Are  you  really?"  she  replied.     "I  don't  believe  it." 

"Why  not?"  he  asked. 

"Oh,  signs,  omens  and  portents.  You  don't  like  women  very 
well  I  fancy." 

"Don't  I!" 

"No,  I  think  not,"  she  replied. 

She  was  charming  in  a  soft  grayish  green  satin.  He  noticed 
that  her  neck  was  beautiful  and  that  her  hair  looped  itself  grace- 
fully upon  the  back  of  it.  Her  nose  was  straight  and  fine,  sensi- 
tive because  of  its  thin  partitioning  walls.  He  followed  her  into 
the  library  and  they  went  out  on  the  porch.  Presently  he  re- 
turned— it  was  ten  o'clock — and  she  came  also.  Davis  had 
gone  to  his  room,  Mrs.  Hibberdell  to  hers. 

"I  think  I'll  read,"  he  said,  aimlessly. 

"Why  anything  like  that?"  she  jested.  "Never  read  when  you 
can  do  anything  else." 

"What  else  can  I  do?" 


THE    "GENIUS"  341 

"Oh,  lots  of  things.  Play  cards,  tell  fortunes,  read  palms, 
drink  beer — "  She  looked  at  him  wilfully. 

He  went  to  his  favorite  chair  near  the  window,  side  by  side 
with  the  window-seat  couch.  She  came  and  threw  herself  on 
it. 

"Be  gallant  and  fix  my  pillows  for  me,  will  you?"  she  asked. 

"Of  course  I  will,"  he  said. 

He  took  a  pillow  and  raised  her  head,  for  she  did  not  deign 
to  move. 

"Is  that  enough?"  he  inquired. 

"One  more." 

He  put  his  hand  under  the  first  pillow  and  lifted  it  up.  She 
took  hold  of  his  free  hand  to  raise  herself.  When  she  had  it 
she  held  it  and  laughed  a  curious  excited  laugh.  It  came  over 
him  all  at  once,  the  full  meaning  of  all  the  things  she  had  been 
doing.  He  dropped  the  pillow  he  was  holding  and  looked  at  her 
steadfastly.  She  relaxed  her  hold  and  leaned  back,  languorous, 
smiling.  He  took  her  left  hand,  then  her  right  and  sat  down 
beside  her.  In  a  moment  he  slipped  one  arm  under  her  waist  and 
bending  over  put  his  lips  to  hers.  She  twined  her  arms  about  his 
neck  tightly  and  hugged  him  close;  then  looking  in  his  eyes  she 
heaved  a  great  sigh. 

"You  love  me,  don't  you?"  he  asked. 

"I  thought  you  never  would,"  she  sighed,  and  clasped  him  to 
her  again. 


CHAPTER   XXIII 

THE  form  of  Carlotta  Wilson  was  perfect,  her  passion  eager, 
her  subtlety  a  match  for  almost  any  situation.  She  had 
deliberately  set  out  to  win  Eugene  because  he  was  attractive  to 
her  and  because,  by  his  early  indifference,  he  had  piqued  her  van- 
ity and  self-love.  She  liked  him  though,  liked  every  one  of  his 
characteristics,  and  was  as  proud  of  her  triumph  as  a  child  with 
a  new  toy.  When  he  had  finally  slipped  his  arm  under  her  waist 
she  had  thrilled  with  a  burning,  vibrating  thrill  throughout  her 
frame  and  when  she  came  to  him  it  was  with  the  eagerness  of 
one  wild  for  his  caresses.  She  threw  herself  on  him,  kissed  him 
sensuously  scores  of  times,  whispered  her  desire  and  her  affection. 
Eugene  thought,  now  that  he  saw  her  through  the  medium  of 
an  awakened  passion,  that  he  had  never  seen  anything  more 
lovely.  For  the  time  being  he  forgot  Frieda,  Angela,  his  loneli- 
ness, the  fact  that  he  was  working  in  supposed  prudent  self-re- 
straint to  effect  his  recovery,  and  gave  himself  up  to  the  full  en- 
joyment of  this  situation. 

Carlotta  was  tireless  in  her  attentions.  Once  she  saw  that  he 
really  cared,  or  imagined  he  did,  she  dwelt  in  the  atmosphere  of 
her  passion  and  affection.  There  was  not  a  moment  that  she  was 
not  with  or  thinking  of  Eugene  when  either  was  possible.  She 
lay  in  wait  for  him  at  every  turn,  gave  him  every  opportunity 
which  her  skill  could  command.  She  knew  the  movements  of 
her  mother  and  cousin  to  the  least  fraction — could  tell  exactly 
where  they  were,  how  long  they  were  likely  to  remain,  how  long 
it  would  take  them  to  reach  a  certain  door  or  spot  from  where 
they  were  standing.  Her  step  was  noiseless,  her  motions  and 
glances  significant  and  interpretative.  For  a  month  or  there- 
abouts she  guided  Eugene  through  the  most  perilous  situations, 
keeping  her  arms  about  him  to  the  last  possible  moment,  kissing 
him  silently  and  swiftly  at  the  most  unexpected  times  and  in 
the  most  unexpected  surroundings.  Her  weary  languor,  her 
seeming  indifference,  disappeared,  and  she  was  very  much  alive — 
except  in  the  presence  of  others.  There  her  old  manner  re- 
mained, intensified  even,  for  she  was  determined  to  throw  a  veil 
of  darkness  over  her  mother  and  her  cousin's  eyes.  She  succeeded 
admirably  for  the  time  being,  for  she  lied  to  her  mother  out  of 
the  whole  cloth,  pretending  that  Eugene  was  nice  but  a  little 

342 


THE    "GENIUS'  343 

slow  so  far  as  the  ways  of  the  world  were  concerned.  "He  may 
be  a  good  artist,"  she  volunteered,  "but  he  isn't  very  much  of  a 
ladies'  man.  He  hasn't  the  first  trace  of  gallantry." 

Mrs.  Hibberdell  was  glad.  At  least  there  would  be  no  disturb- 
ance here.  She  feared  Carlotta,  feared  Eugene,  but  she  saw  no 
reason  for  complaint.  In  her  presence  all  was  seemingly  formal 
and  at  times  almost  distant.  She  did  not  like  to  say  to  her  daugh- 
ter that  she  should  not  come  to  her  own  home  now  that  Eugene 
was  here,  and  she  did  not  like  to  tell  him  to  leave.  Carlotta 
said  she  liked  him  fairly  well,  but  that  was  nothing.  Any  mar- 
ried woman  might  do  that.  Yet  under  her  very  eyes  was  going 
forward  the  most  disconcerting  license.  She  would  have  been  as- 
tounded if  she  had  known  the  manner  in  which  the  bath,  Car- 
lotta's  chamber  and  Eugene's  room  were  being  used.  The  hour 
never  struck  when  they  were  beyond  surveillance  but  what 
they  were  together. 

Eugene  grew  very  indifferent  in  the  matter  of  his  work.  From 
getting  to  the  point  where  he  was  enjoying  it  because  he  looked 
upon  it  as  a  form  of  exercise  which  was  benefiting  him,  and 
feeling  that  he  might  not  have  to  work  indefinitely  if  he  kept  up 
physical  rehabilitation  at  this  pace,  he  grew  languid  about  it  and 
moody  over  the  time  he  had  to  give  to  it.  Carlotta  had  the  privi- 
lege of  a  certain  automobile  and  besides  she  could  afford  to  hire 
one  of  her  own.  She  began  by  suggesting  that  he  meet  her  at 
certain  places  and  times  for  a  little  spin  and  this  took  him  away 
from  his  work  a  good  portion  of  the  time. 

"You  don't  have  to  work  every  day,  do  you?"  she  asked  him 
one  Sunday  afternoon  when  they  were  alone.  Simpson  and  Mrs. 
Hibberdell  had  gone  out  for  a  walk  and  they  were  in  her  room 
on  the  second  floor.  Her  mother's  was  on  the  third. 

"I  don't  have  to,"  he  said,  "if  I  don't  mind  losing  the  money 
they  pay.  It's  fifteen  cents  an  hour  and  I  need  that.  I'm  not 
working  at  my  regular  profession,  you  must  remember." 

"Oh,  chuck  that,"  she  said.  "What's  fifteen  cents  an  hour? 
I'll  give  you  ten  times  that  to  come  and  be  with  me." 

"No,  you  won't,"  he  said.  "You  won't  give  me  anything.  We 
won't  go  anywhere  on  that  basis." 

"Oh,  Eugene,  how  you  talk.  Why  won't  you?"  she  asked. 
"I  have  lots  of  it — at  least  lots  more  than  you  have  just  now. 
And  it  might  as  well  be  spent  this  way  as  some  other.  It  won't 
be  spent  right  anyhow — that  is  not  for  any  exceptional  purpose. 
Why  shouldn't  you  have  some  of  it?  You  can  pay  it  back  to  me." 

"I  won't  do  it,"  said  Eugene.  "We  won't  go  anywhere  on 
that  basis.  I'd  rather  go  and  work.  It's  all  right,  though.  I 


344  THE    "GENIUS" 

can  sell  a  picture  maybe.  I  expect  to  hear  any  day  of  some- 
thing being  sold.  What  is  it  you  want  to  do?" 

"I  want  you  to  come  automobiling  with  me  tomorrow.  Ma  is 
going  over  to  her  sister  Ella's  in  Brooklyn.  Has  that  shop  of 
yours  a  phone?" 

"Sure  it  has.  I  don't  think  you'd  better  call  me  up  there 
though." 

"Once  wouldn't  hurt." 

"Well,  perhaps  not.  But  we'd  better  not  begin  that,  or  at 
least  not  make  a  practice  of  it.  These  people  are  very  strict. 
They  have  to  be." 

"I  know,"  said  Carlotta.  "I  won't.  I  was  just  thinking. 
I'll  let  you  know.  You  know  that  river  road  that  runs  on  the 
top  of  the  hill  over  there?" 

"Yes." 

"You  be  walking  along  there  tomorrow  at  one  o'clock  and  I'll 
pick  you  up.  You  can  come  this  once,  can't  you?" 

"Sure,"  said  Eugene.  "I  can  come.  I  was  just  joking.  I 
can  get  some  money."  He  had  still  his  hundred  dollars  which 
he  had  not  used  when  he  first  started  looking  for  work.  He  had 
been  clinging  to  it  grimly,  but  now  in  this  lightened  atmosphere 
he  thought  he  might  spend  some  of  it.  He  was  going  to  get  well. 
Everything  was  pointing  that  way.  His  luck  was  with  him. 

"Well,  I'll  get  the  car.  You  don't  mind  riding  in  that,  do 
you?" 

"No,"  he  said.  "I'll  wear  a  good  suit  to  the  shop  and  change 
over  there." 

She  laughed  gaily,  for  his  scruples  and  simplicity  amused  her. 

"You're  a  prince — my  Prince  Charming,"  she  said  and  she 
flung  herself  in  his  lap.  "Oh,  you  angel  man,  heaven-born! 
I've  been  waiting  for  you  I  don't  know  how  long.  Wise  man! 
Prince  Charming!  I  love  you!  I  love  you!  I  think  you're  the 
nicest  thing  that  ever  was." 

Eugene  caressed  her  gently. 

"And  you're  my  wise  girl.  But  we  are  no  good,  neither  you 
nor  I.  You're  a  wastrel  and  a  stray.  And  I — I  hesitate  to  think 
what  I  am." 

"What  is  a  wastrel?"  she  asked.  "That's  a  new  one  on  me. 
I  don't  remember." 

"Something  or  someone  that  can  be  thrown  away  as  useless. 
A  stray  is  a  pigeon  that  won't  stay  with  the  flock." 

"That's  me,"  said  Carlotta,  holding  out  her  firm,  smooth  arms 
before  her  and  grinning  mischievously.  "I  won't  stay  with  any 
flock.  Nix  for  the  flocks.  I'd  rather  be  off  with  my  wise  man. 


THE    "GENIUS"  345 

He  is  nice  enough  for  me.  He's  better  nor  nine  or  ten  flocks." 
She  was  using  corrupt  English  for  the  joy  of  it.  "Just  me  and 
you,  Prince  Charming.  Am  I  your  lovely  wastrel?  Do  you 
like  strays?  Say  you  do.  Listen !  Do  you  like  strays?" 

Eugene  had  been  turning  his  head  away,  saying  "scandalous! 
terrible,  you're  the  worst  ever,"  but  she  stopped  his  mouth  with 
her  lips. 

<T>oyou?" 

"This  wastrel,  yes.  This  stray,"  he  replied,  smoothing  her 
cheek.  "Ah,  you're  lovely,  Carlotta,  you're  beautiful.  What  a 
wonderful  woman  you  are." 

She  gave  herself  to  him  completely. 

"Whatever  I  am,  I'm  yours,  wise  man,"  she  went  on.  "You 
can  have  anything  you  want  of  me,  do  anything  you  please  with 
me.  You're  like  an  opiate  to  me,  Eugene,  sweet!  You  stop  my 
mouth  and  close  my  eyes  and  seal  my  ears.  You  make  me  forget 
everything  I  suppose  I  might  think  now  and  then  but  I  don't 
want  to.  I  don't  want  to !  And  I  don't  care.  I  wish  you  were 
single.  I  wish  I  were  free.  I  wish  we  had  an  island  somewhere 
together.  Oh,  hell!  Life  is  a  wearisome  tangle,  isn't  it?  'Take 
the  cash  and  let  the  credit  go.'  " 

By  this  time  Carlotta  had  heard  enough  of  Eugene's  life  to 
understand  what  his  present  condition  was.  She  knew  he  was 
sick  though  not  exactly  why.  She  thought  it  was  due  to  over- 
work. She  knew  he  was  out  of  funds  except  for  certain  pictures 
he  had  on  sale,  but  that  he  would  regain  his  art  ability  and  re- 
establish himself  she  did  not  doubt.  She  knew  something  of 
Angela  and  thought  it  was  all  right  that  she«should  be  away  from 
him,  but  now  she  wished  the  separation  might  be  permanent. 
She  went  into  the  city  and  asking  about  at  various  art  stores 
learned  something  of  Eugene's  art  history  and  his  great  promise. 
It  made  him  all  the  more  fascinating  in  her  eyes.  One  of  his 
pictures  on  exhibition  at  Pottle  Freres  was  bought  by  her  after 
a  little  while  and  the  money  sent  to  Eugene,  for  she  had  learned 
from  him  how  these  pictures,  any  pictures,  were  exhibited  on 
sale  and  the  painter  paid,  minus  the  commission,  when  the  sale 
was  made.  She  took  good  care  to  make  it  clear  to  the  manager  at 
Pottle  Freres  that  she  was  doing  this  so  that  Eugene  could  have 
the  money  and  saw  to  it  that  the  check  reached  him  promptly. 
If  Eugene  had  been  alone  this  check  of  three  hundred  dollars 
would  have  served  to  bring  Angela  to  him.  As  it  was  it  gave 
him  funds  to  disport  himself  with  in  her  company.  He  did  not 
know  that  she  had  been  the  means  of  his  getting  it,  or  to  whom 
the  picture  had  been  sold.  A  fictitious  name  was  given.  This 


346  THE    "GENIUS" 

sale  somewhat  restored  Eugene's  faith  in  his  future,  for  if  one  of 
his  pictures  would  sell  so  late  in  the  day  for  this  price,  others 
would. 

There  were  days  thereafter  of  the  most  curious  composition. 
In  the  morning  he  would  leave  dressed  in  his  old  working  suit 
and  carrying  his  lunch  box,  Carlotta  waving  him  a  farewell 
from  her  window,  or,  if  he  had  an  engagement  outside  with  car- 
lotta,  wearing  a  good  suit,  and  trusting  to  his  overalls  and  jumper 
to  protect  it,  working  all  day  with  John  and  Bill,  or  Malachi 
Dempsey  and  Joseph — for  there  was  rivalry  between  these  two 
groups  as  to  which  should  have  his  company — or  leaving  the 
shop  early  and  riding  with  her  a  part  of  the  time,  coming  home 
at  night  to  be  greeted  by  Carlotta  as  though  she  had  not  seen  him 
at  all.  She  watched  for  his  coming  as  patiently  as  a  wife  and 
was  as  eager  to  see  if  there  was  anything  she  could  do  for  him. 
In  the  shop  Malachi  and  Joseph  or  John  and  Bill  and  sometimes 
some  of  the  carpenters  up  stairs  would  complain  of  a  rush  of 
work  in  order  that  they  might  have  his  assistance  or  presence. 
Malachi  and  Joseph  could  always  enter  the  complaint  that  they 
were  in  danger  of  being  hampered  by  shavings,  for  the  latter 
were  constantly  piling  up  in  great  heaps,  beautiful  shavings  of 
ash  and  yellow  pine  and  walnut  which  smelled  like  resin  and 
frankincense  and  had  the  shape  of  girl's  curls  or  dry  breakfast 
food,  or  rich  damp  sawdust.  Or  John  and  Bill  would  complain 
that  they  wrere  being  overworked  and  needed  someone  in  the  car 
to  receive.  Even  Big  John,  the  engineer,  tried  to  figure  out 
some  scheme  by  which  he  could  utilize  Eugene  as  a  fireman,  but 
that  was  impossible ;  there  was  no  call  for  any  such  person.  The 
foreman  understood  well  enough  what  the  point  was  but  said 
nothing,  placing  Eugene  with  the  particular  group  which  seemed 
to  need  him  most.  Eugene  was  genial  enough  about  the  matter. 
Wherever  he  was  was  right.  He  liked  to  be  in  the  cars  or  on 
a  lumber  pile  or  in  the  plane  room.  He  also  liked  to  stand  and 
talk  to  Big  John  or  Harry  Fornes,  his  basket  under  his  arm — 
"kidding,"  as  he  called  it.  His  progress  to  and  fro  was  marked 
by  endless  quips  and  jests  and  he  was  never  weary. 

When  his  work  wTas  done  at  night  he  would  hurry  home,  fol- 
lowing the  right  bank  of  the  little  stream  until  he  reached  a  path 
which  led  up  to  the  street  whereon  was  the  Hibberdell  house. 
On  his  way  he  would  sometimes  stop  and  study  the  water,  its 
peaceful  current  bearing  an  occasional  stick  or  straw  upon  its 
bosom,  and  contrasting  the  seeming  peace  of  its  movement  with 
his  own  troubled  life.  The  subtlety  of  nature  as  expressed  in 
water  appealed  to  him.  The  difference  between  this  idyllic 


THE    c 'GENIUS'  347 

stream  bank  and  his  shop  and  all  who  were  of  it,  struck  him  force- 
fully. Malachi  Dempsey  had  only  the  vaguest  conception  of  the 
beauty  of  nature.  Jack  Stix  was  scarcely  more  artistic  than  the 
raw  piles  of  lumber  with  wrhich  he  dealt.  Big  John  had  no 
knowledge  of  the  rich  emotions  of  love  or  of  beauty  which  trou- 
bled Eugene's  brain.  They  lived  on  another  plane,  apparently. 

And  at  the  other  end  of  the  stream  awaiting  him  was  Car- 
lotta,  graceful,  sophisticated,  eager  in  her  regard  for  him,  luke- 
warm in  her  interest  in  morals,  sybaritic  in  her  moods,  repre- 
senting in  a  way  a  world  which  lived  upon  the  fruits  of  this  ex- 
ploited toil  and  caring  nothing  about  it.  If  he  said  anything  to 
Carlotta  about  the  condition  of  Joseph  Mews,  who  carried 
bundles  of  wood  home  to  his  sister  of  an  evening  to  help  save 
the  expense  of  fuel,  she  merely  smiled.  If  he  talked  of  the  pov- 
erty of  the  masses  she  said,  "Don't  be  doleful,  Eugene."  She 
wanted  to  talk  of  art  and  luxury  and  love,  or  think  o£  them  at 
least.  Her  love  of  the  beauty  of  nature  was  keen.  There  were 
certain  inns  they  could  reach  by  automobile  where  they  could  sit 
and  dine  and  drink  a  bottle  of  wine  or  a  pitcher  of  claret  cup, 
and  here  she  would  muse  on  what  they  would  do  if  they  were 
only  free.  Angela  was  frequently  in  Carlotta's  thoughts,  per- 
sistently in  Eugene's,  for  he  could  not  help  feeling  that  he  was 
doing  her  a  rank  injustice. 

She  had  been  so  patient  and  affectionate  all  this  long  time  past, 
had  tended  him  as  a  mother,  waited  on  him  as  a  servant.  Only 
recently  he  had  been  writing  in  most  affectionate  terms,  wishing 
she  were  with  him.  Now  all  that  was  dead  again.  It  was  hard 
work  to  write.  Everything  he  said  seemed  a  lie  and  he  did  not 
want  to  say  it.  He  hated  to  pretend.  Still,  if  he  did  not  write 
Angela  would  be  in  a  state  of  mortal  agony,  he  thought,  and 
would  shortly  come  to  look  him  up.  It  was  only  by  writing, 
protesting  his  affection,  explaining  why  in  his  judgment  it  was 
unadvisable  for  her  to  come  at  present,  that  she  could  be  made 
to  stay  where  she  was.  And  nowr  that  he  was  so  infatuated  with 
Carlotta  this  seemed  very  desirable.  He  did  not  delude  himself 
that  he  would  ever  be  able  to  marry  her.  He  knew  that  he  could 
not  get  a  divorce,  there  being  no  grounds,  and  the  injustice  to 
Angela  being  such  a  bar  to  his  conscience ;  and  as  for  Carlotta, 
her  future  was  very  uncertain.  Norman  Wilson,  for  all  that  he 
disregarded  her  at  times,  did  not  want  to  give  her  up.  He  was 
writing,  threatening  to  come  back  to  New  York  if  she  did  not 
come  to  him,  though  the  fact  that  she  was  in  her  mother's  home, 
where  he  considered  her  safe,  was  some  consolation  to  him.  An- 
gela was  begging  Eugene  to  let  her  come.  They  would  get  along, 


348  THE    '"GENIUS" 

she  argued,  on  whatever  he  got  and  he  would  be  better  off  with 
her  than  alone.  She  pictured  him  living  in  some  uncomfortable 
boarding  house  where  he  was  not  half  attended  to  and  intensely 
lonely.  Her  return  meant  the  leaving  of  this  lovely  home — for 
Mrs.  Hibberdell  had  indicated  that  she  would  not  like  to  keep 
him  and  his  wife — and  so  the  end  of  this  perfect  romance  with 
Carlotta.  An  end  to  lovely  country  inns  and  summer  balconies 
where  they  were  dining  together!  An  end  to  swift  tours  in  her 
automobile,  which  she  guided  skilfully  herself,  avoiding  the  pres- 
ence of  a  chauffeur.  An  end  to  lovely  trysts  under  trees  and  by 
pretty  streams  where  he  kissed  and  fondled  her  and  where  she 
lingered  joyously  in  his  arms! 

"If  ma  could  only  see  us  now,"  she  would  jest;  or, 
"Do  you  suppose  Bill  and  John  would  recognize  you  here  if 
they  saw  you?" 

Once  she  said:  "This  is  better  than  the  engine  room,  isn't  it?" 
"You're  a  bad  lot,  Carlotta/'  he  would  declare,  and  then  would 
come  to  her  lips  the  enigmatic  smile  of  Monna  Lisa. 

"You  like  bad  lots,  don't  you?    Strays  make  fine  hunting." 
In  her  own  philosophy  she  was  taking  the  cash  and  letting 
the  credit  go. 


CHAPTER   XXIV 

DAYS  like  this  could  not  go  on  forever.  The  seed  of  their 
destruction  was  in  their  beginning.  Eugene  was  sad.  He 
used  to  show  his  mood  at  times  and  if  she  asked  him  what  was 
the  matter,  would  say:  "We  can't  keep  this  thing  up  much  longer. 
It  must  come  to  an  end  soon." 

"You're  certainly  a  gloomy  philosopher,  Genie,"  she  would 
say,  reproachfully,  for  she  had  hopes  that  it  could  be  made  to 
last  a  long  while  under  any  circumstances.  Eugene  had  the  feel- 
ing that  no  pretence  would  escape  Angela's  psychology.  She  was 
too  sensitive  to  his  unspoken  moods  and  feelings.  She  would 
come  soon,  willynilly,  and  then  all  this  would  be  ended.  As  a 
matter  of  fact  several  things  combined  to  bring  about  change  and 
conclusion. 

For  one  thing  Mrs.  Hibberdell  had  been  more  and  more  im- 
pressed with  the  fact  that  Carlotta  was  not  merely  content  to 
stay  but  that  once  having  come  she  was  fairly  determined  to  re- 
main. She  had  her  own  apartment  in  the  city,  ostensibly  closed 
for  the  summer,  for  she  had  protested  that  it  was  too  hot  to  live 
in  towrf  when  she  first  proposed  going  to  Narragansett.  After 
seeing  Eugene  she  figured  out  a  possible  use  for  it,  though  that 
use  was  dangerous,  for  Norman  Wilson  might  return  at  any 
time.  Nevertheless,  they  had  been  there  on  occasions — this  with 
the  double  effect  of  deceiving  her  mother  and  entertaining  Eu- 
gene. If  she  could  remain  away  from  Riverwood  a  percentage  of 
the  time,  she  argued  with  Eugene,  it  would  make  her  stay  less 
suspicious  and  would  not  jeopardize  their  joy  in  companionship. 
So  she  did  this.  At  the  same  time  she  could  not  stay  away  from 
Riverwood  entirely,  for  Eugene  was  there  necessarily  morning 
and  evening. 

Nevertheless,  toward  the  end  of  August  Mrs.  Hibberdell  was 
growing  suspicious.  She  had  seen  an  automobile  entering  Central 
Park  once  when  Carlotta  had  phoned  her  that  she  had  a  sick 
headache  and  could  not  come  up.  It  looked  to  Mrs.  Hibberdell, 
who  had  gone  down  town  shopping  on  the  strength  of  this  ail- 
ment and  who  had  phoned  Carlotta  that  she  was  going  to  call  at 
her  apartment  in  the  evening,  as  though  Eugene  and  Carlotta 
were  in  it.  Eugene  had  gone  to  work  that  morning,  which  made 
it  seem  doubtful,  but  it  certainly  looked  very  much  like  him. 
Still  she  did  riot  feel  sure  it  was  he  or  Carlotta  either.  When 

349 


350  THE  "GENIUS" 

she  came  to  the  latter's  apartment  Carlotta  was  there,  feeling 
better,  but  stating  that  she  had  not  been  out.  Mrs.  Hibberdell 
concluded  thoughtfully  that  she  must  have  been  mistaken. 

Her  own  room  was  on  the  third  floor,  and  several  times  after 
all  had  retired  and  she  had  come  down  to  the  kitchen  or  dining 
room  or  library  for  something,  she  had  heard  a  peculiar  noise 
as  of  someone  walking  lightly.  She  thought  it  was  fancy  on  her 
part,  for  invariably  when  she  reached  the  second  floor  all  was 
dark  and  still.  Nevertheless  she  wrondered  whether  Eugene  and 
Carlotta  could  be  visiting.  Twice,  between  breakfast  and  the 
time  Eugene  departed,  she  thought  she  heard  Eugene  and  Car- 
lotta whispering  on  the  second  floor,  but  there  was  no  proof. 
Carlotta's  readiness  to  rise  for  breakfast  at  six-thirty  in  order  to 
be  at  the  same  table  with  Eugene  was  peculiar,  and  her  giving 
up  Narragansett  for  Riverwood  was  most  significant.  It  re- 
mained for  one  real  discovery  to  resolve  all  her  suspicions  into 
the  substance  of  fact  and  convict  Carlotta  of  being  the  most  con- 
scienceless of  deceivers. 

It  came  about  in  this  fashion.  One  Sunday  morning  Davis 
and  Mrs.  Hibberdell  had  decided  to  go  automobiling.  Eugene 
and  Carlotta  were  invited  but  had  refused,  for  Carlotta  on  hear- 
ing the  discussion  several  days  before  had  warned  Eugene  and 
planned  to  have  the  day  for  herself  and  her  lover.  She  cautioned 
him  to  pretend  the  need  of  making  visits  down  town.  As  for 
herself  she  had  said  she  would  go,  but  on  the  day  in  question 
did  not  feel  well  enough.  Davis  and  Mrs.  Hibberdell  departed, 
their  destination  being  Long  Island.  It  was  an  all  day  tour. 
After  an  hour  their  machine  broke,  however,  and  after  sitting 
in  it  two  hours  waiting  for  repairs — long  enough  to  spoil  their 
plans — they  came  back  by  trolley.  Eugene  had  not  gone  down 
town.  He  was  not  even  dressed  when  the  door  opened  on  the 
ground  floor  and  Mrs.  Hibberdell  came  in. 

"Oh,  Carlotta,"  she  called,  standing  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs 
and  expecting  Carlotta  to  appear  from  her  own  room  or  a  sort 
of  lounging  and  sewing  room  which  occupied  the  front  of  the 
house  on  the  second  floor  and  where  she  frequently  stayed.  Car- 
lotta unfortunately  was  with  Eugene  and  the  door  to  this  room 
was  commanded  from  where  Mrs.  Hibberdell  was  standing.  She 
did  not  dare  to  answer. 

"Oh,  Carlotta/*  called  her  mother  again. 

The  latter's  first  thought  was  to  go  back  in  the  kitchen  and 
look  there,  but  on  second  thoughts  she  ascended  the  steps  and 
started  for  the  sewing  room.  Carlotta  thought  she  had  entered. 
In  an  instant  she  had  seized  the  opportunity  to  step  into  the  bath 


THE    "GENIUS'  351 

which  was  next  to  Eugene's  room  but  she  was  scarcely  quick 
enough.  Her  mother  had  not  gone  into  the  room — only  opened 
the  door  and  looked  in.  She  did  not  see  Carlotta  step  out  of 
Eugene's  room,  but  she  did  see  her  entering  the  bath,  in  negligee, 
and  she  could  scarcely  have  come  from  anywhere  else.  Her  own 
door  which  was  between  Eugene's  room  and  the  sewing  room 
was  ten  feet  away.  It  did  not  seem  possible  that  she  could  have 
come  from  there:  she  had  not  had  time  enough,  and  anyhow 
why  had  she  not  answered  ? 

The  first  impulse  of  Mrs.  Hibberdell  was  to  call  to  her.  Her 
second  thought  was  to  let  the^ruse  seem  successful.  She  was 
convinced  that  Eugene  was  in  his  room,  and  a  few  moments  later 
a  monitory  cough  on  his  part — coughed  for  a  purpose — convinced 
her. 

"Are  you  in  the  bath,  Carlotta?"  she  called  quietly,  after  look- 
ing into  Carlotta's  room. 

"Yes,"  came  the  reply,  easily  enough  now.  "Did  your  machine 
break  down?" 

A  few  remarks  were  exchanged  through  the  door  and  then 
Mrs.  Hibberdell  went  to  her  room.  She  thought  over  the  situ- 
ation steadily  for  it  greatly  irritated  her.  It  was  not  the  same 
as  the  discovered  irregularity  of  a  trusted  and  virtuous  daughter. 
Carlotta  had  not  been  led  astray.  She  was  a  grown  woman, 
married,  experienced.  In  every  way  she  knew  as  much  about 
life  as  her  mother — in  some  respects  more.  The  difference  be- 
tween them  was  in  ethical  standards  and  the  policy  that  aligns 
itself  with  common  sense,  decency,  self  preservation,  as  against 
its  opposite.  Carlotta  had  so  much  to  look  out  for.  Her  future 
was  in  her  own  hands.  Besides,  Eugene's  future,  his  wife's 
rights  and  interests,  her  mother's  home,  her  mother's  standards, 
were  things  which  she  ought  to  respect — ought  to  want  to  re- 
spect. To  find  her  lying  as  she  had  been  this  long  time,  pretend- 
ing indifference,  pretending  absence,  and  no  doubt  associating 
with  Eugene  all  the  while,  was  disgusting.  She  was  very  angry, 
not  so  much  at  Eugene,  though  her  respect  for  him  was  greatly 
lowered,  artist  though  he  was,  as  at  Carlotta.  She  ought  to 
do  better.  She  ought  to  be  ashamed  not  to  guard  herself  against 
a  man  like  Eugene,  instead  of  luring  him  on.  It  was  Carlotta's 
fault,  and  she  determined  to  reproach  her  bitterly  and  to  break 
up  this  wretched  alliance  at  once. 

There  was  an  intense  and  bitter  quarrel  the  next  morning,  for 
Mrs.  Hibberdell  decided  to  hold  her  peace  until  Eugene  and 
Davis  should  be  out  of  the  house.  She  wanted  to  have  this  out 
with  Carlotta  alone,  and  the  clash  came  shortly  after  breakfast 


352  THE    "GENIUS" 

when  both  the  others  had  left.  Carlotta  had  already  warned  Eu- 
gene that  something  might  happen  on  account  of  this,  but  under 
no  circumstances  was  he  to  admit  anything  unless  she  told  him 
to.  The  maid  was  in  the  kitchen  out  of  ear  shot,  and  Mrs.  Hib- 
berdell and  Carlotta  were  in  the  library  when  the  opening  gun 
was  fired.  In  a  way  Carlotta  was  prepared,  for  she  fancied  her 
mother  might  have  seen  other  things — what  or  how  much  she 
could  not  guess.  She  was  not  without  the  dignity  of  a  Circe, 
for  she  had  been  through  scenes  like  this  before.  Her  own  hus- 
band had  charged  her  with  infidelity  more  than  once,  and  she  had 
been  threatened  with  physical  violence  by  him.  Her  face  was 
pale  but  calm. 

"Now,  Carlotta,"  observed  her  mother  vigorously,  "I  saw  what 
was  going  on  yesterday  morning  when  I  came  home.  You  were 
in  Mr.  Witla's  room  with  your  clothes  off.  I  saw  you  come  out. 
Please  don't  deny  it.  I  saw  you  come  out.  Aren't  you  ashamed 
of  yourself  ?  How  can  you  treat  me  that  way  after  your  promise 
not  to  do  anything  out  of  the  way  here?" 

"You  didn't  see  me  come  out  of  his  room  and  I  wasn't  in 
there,"  said  Carlotta  brazenly.  Her  face  was  pale,  but  she  was 
giving  a  fair  imitation  of  righteous  surprise.  "Why  do  you  make 
any  such  statement  as  that?" 

"Why,  Carlotta  Hibberdell,  how  dare  you  contradict  me; 
how  dare  you  lie!  You  came  out  of  that  room.  You  know  you 
did.  You  know  that  you  were  in  there.  You  know  that  I  saw 
you.  I  should  think  you  would  be  ashamed  of  yourself,  slipping 
about  this  house  like  a  street  girl  and  your  own  mother  in  it. 
Aren't  you  ashamed  of  yourself?  Have  you  no  sense  of  decency 
left?  Oh,  Carlotta,  I  know  you  are  bad,  but  why  will  you  come 
here  to  be  so?  Why  couldn't  you  let  this  man  alone?  He  was 
doing  well  enough.  It's  a  shame,  the  thing  you  have  done.  It's 
an  outrage.  Mrs.  Witla  ought  to  come  here  and  whip  you  within 
an  inch  of  your  life." 

"Oh,  how  you  talk,"  said  Carlotta,  irritably.  "You  make  me 
tired.  You  didn't  see  me.  It's  the  old  story — suspicion.  You're 
always  full  of  suspicion.  You  didn't  see  me  and  I  wasn't  in 
there.  Why  do  you  start  a  fuss  for  nothing!" 

"A  fuss!  A  fuss  for  nothing — the  idea,  you  evil  woman.  A 
fuss  for  nothing.  How  can  you  talk  that  way!  I  can  hardly 
believe  my  senses.  I  can  hardly  believe  you  would  dare  to  braz- 
enly face  me  in  this  way.  I  saw  you  and  now  you  deny  it." 

Mrs.  Hibberdell  had  not  seen  her,  but  she  was  convinced  that 
what  she  said  was  true. 

Carlotta  brazened  it  out.    "You  didn't,"  she  insisted. 


THE    "GENIUS"  353 

Mrs.  Hibberdell  stared.  The  effrontery  of  it  took  her  breath 
away. 

"Carlotta,"  she  exclaimed,  "I  honestly  think  you  are  the  worst 
woman  in  the  world.  I  can't  think  of  you  as  my  daughter — you 
are  too  brazen.  You're  the  worst  because  you're  calculating. 
You  know  what  you're  doing,  and  you  are  deliberate  in  your 
method  of  doing  it.  You're  evil-minded.  You  know  exactly 
what  you  want  and  you  set  out  deliberately  to  get  it.  You  have 
done  it  in  this  case.  You  started  out  to  get  this  man  and  you 
have  succeeded  in  doing  it.  You  have  no  sense  of  shame,  no 
pride,  no  honesty,  no  honor,  no  respect  for  me  or  anyone  else. 
You  do  not  love  this  man.  You  know  you  don't.  If  you  did 
you  would  never  degrade  him  and  yourself  and  me  as  you  have 
done.  You've  simply  indulged  in  another  vile  relationship  be- 
cause you  wanted  to,  and  now  when  you're  caught  you  brazen  it 
out.  You're  evil,  Carlotta.  You're  as  low  as  a  woman  can  be, 
even  if  you  are  my  daughter." 

"It  isn't  true,"  said  Carlotta.  "You're  just  talking  to  hear 
yourself  talk." 

"It  is  true  and  you  know  it,"  reproved  her  mother.  "You 
talk  about  Norman.  He  never  did  a  thing  worse  in  his  life  than 
you  have  done.  He  may  be  a  gambler  and  immoral  and  incon- 
siderate and  selfish.  What  are  you?  Can  you  stand  there  and 
tell  me  you're  any  better?  Pah!  If  you  only  had  a  sense  of 
shame  something  could  be  done  for  you,  but  you  haven't  any. 
You're  just  vile,  that's  all." 

"How  you  talk,  ma,"  she  observed,  calmly;  "how  you  carry 
on,  and  that  on  a  mere  suspicion.  You  didn't  see  me.  I  might 
have  been  in  there  but  you  didn't  see  me  and  I  wasn't.  You're 
making  a  storm  just  because  you  want  to.  I  like  Mr.  Witla. 
I  think  he's  very  nice,  but  I'm  not  interested  in  him  and  I  haven't 
done  anything  to  harm  him.  You  can  turn  him  out  if  you  want 
to.  That's  none  of  my  affairs.  You're  simply  raging  about  as 
usual  without  any  facts  to  go  upon." 

Carlotta  stared  at  her  mother,  thinking.  She  was  not  greatly 
disturbed.  It  was  pretty  bad,  no  doubt  of  that,  but  she  was  not 
thinking  so  much  of  that  as  of  the  folly  of  being  found  out.  Her 
mother  knew  for  certain,  though  she  would  not  admit  to  her  that 
she  knew.  Now  all  this  fine  summer  romance  would  end — the 
pleasant  convenience  of  it,  anyhow.  Eugene  would  be  put  to 
the  trouble  of  moving.  Her  mother  might  say  something  dis- 
agreeable to  him.  Besides,  she  knew  she  was  better  than  Nor- 
man because  she  did  not  associate  with  the  same  evil  type  ef 
people.  She  was  not  coarse,  she  was  not  thick-witted,  she  was 


354  THE    "GENIUS" 

not  cruel,  she  was  not  a  user  of  vile  language  or  an  expresser  of 
vile  ideas,  and  Norman  was  at  times.  She  might  lie  and  she 
might  be  calculating,  but  not  to  anyone's  disadvantage — she  was 
simply  passion  driven — boldly  so  and  only  toward  love  or  ro- 
mance. "Am  I  evil  ?"  she  often  asked  herself.  Her  mother  said 
she  was  evil.  Well,  she  was  in  one  way;  but  her  mother  was 
angry,  that  was  all.  She  did  not  mean  all  she  said.  She  would 
come  round.  Still  Carlotta  did  not  propose  to  admit  the  truth 
of  her  mother's  charges  or  to  go  through  this  situation  without 
some  argument.  There  were  charges  which  her  mother  was 
making  which  were  untenable — points  which  were  inexcusable. 

"Carlotta  Hibberdell,  you're  the  most  brazen  creature  I  ever 
knew!  You're  a  terrible  liar.  How  can  you  stand  there  and 
look  me  in  the  eye  and  say  that,  when  you  know  that  I  know? 
Why  lie  in  addition  to  everything  else?  Oh!  Carlotta,  the  shame 
of  it.  If  you  only  had  some  sense  of  honor!  How  can  you  lie 
like  that  ?  How  can  you  ?" 

"I'm  not  lying,"  declared  Carlotta,  "and  I  wish  you  would 
quit  fussing.  You  didn't  see  me.  You  know  you  didn't.  I 
came  out  of  my  room  and  you  were  in  the  front  room.  Why  do 
you  say  you  weren't.  You  didn't  see  me.  Supposing  I  am  a  liar. 
I'm  your  daughter.  I  may  be  vile.  I  didn't  make  myself  so. 
Certainly  I'm  not  in  this  instance.  Whatever  I  am  I  come  by 
it  honestly.  My  life  hasn't  been  a  bed  of  roses.  Why  do  you 
start  a  silly  fight?  You  haven't  a  thing  to  go  on  except  sus- 
picion and  now  you  want  to  raise  a  row.  I  don't  care  what  you 
think  of  me.  I'm  not  guilty  in  this  case  and  you  can  think  what 
you  please.  You  ought  to  be  ashamed  to  charge  me  with  some- 
thing of  which  you  are  not  sure." 

She  walked  to  the  window  and  stared  out.  Her  mother  shook 
her  head.  Such  effrontery  was  beyond  her.  It  was  like  her 
daughter,  though.  She  took  after  her  father  and  herself.  Both 
were  self-willed  and  determined  when  aroused.  At  the  same  time 
she  was  sorry  for  her  girl,  for  Carlotto  was  a  capable  woman  in 
her  way  and  very  much  dissatisfied  with  life. 

"I  should  think  you  would  be  ashamed  of  yourself,  Carlotta, 
whether  you  admit  it  to  me  or  not,"  she  went  on.  "The  truth  is 
the  truth  and  it  must  hurt  you  a  little.  You  were  in  that  room. 
We  won't  argue  that,  though.  You  set  out  deliberately  to  do  this 
and  you  have  done  it.  Now  what  I  have  to  say  is  this:  You 
are  going  back  to  your  apartment  today,  and  Mr.  Witla  is  going 
to  leave  here  as  quick  as  he  can  get  a  room  somewhere  else. 
You're  not  going  to  continue  this  wretched  relationship  any 
longer  if  I  can  help  it.  I'm  going  to  write  to  his  wife  and  to 


THE    "GENIUS'  355 

Norman  too,  if  I  can't  do  anything  else  to  break  this  up.  You're 
going  to  let  this  man  alone.  You  have  no  right  to  come  between 
him  and  Mrs.  Witla.  It's  an  outrage,  and  no  one  but  a  vile, 
conscienceless  woman  would  do  it.  I'm  not  going  to  say  any- 
thing to  him  now,  but  he's  going  to  leave  here  and  so  are  you. 
When  it's  all  over  you  can  come  back  if  you  want  to.  I'm 
ashamed  for  you.  I'm  ashamed  for  myself.  If  it  hadn't  been 
for  my  own  feelings  and  those  of  Davis,  I  would  have  ordered 
you  both  out  of  the  house  yesterday  and  you  know  it.  It's  con- 
sideration for  myself  that's  made  ine  smooth  it  over  as  much  as 
I  have.  He,  the  vile  thing,  after  all  the  courtesy  I  have  shown 
him.  Still  I  don't  blame  him  as  much  as  I  do  you,  for  he  would 
never  have  looked  at  you  if  you  hadn't  made  him.  My  own 
daughter !  My  own  house !  Teh !  Teh !  Teh !" 

There  was  more  conversation — that  fulgurous,  coruscating  re- 
iteration of  charges.  Eugene  was  no  good.  Carlotta  was  vile. 
Mrs.  Hibberdell  wouldn't  have  believed  it  possible  if  she  hadn't 
seen  it  with  her  own  eyes.  She  was  going  to  tell  Norman  if 
Carlotta  didn't  reform — over  and  over,  one  threat  after  an- 
other. 

"Well,"  she  said,  finally,  "you're  going  to  get  your  things 
ready  and  go  into  the  city  this  afternoon.  I'm  not  going  to  have 
you  here  another  day." 

"No  I'm  not,"  said  Carlotta  boldly,  pondering  over  all  that 
had  been  said.  It  was  a  terrible  ordeal,  but  she  would  not  go 
today.  "I'm  going  in  the  morning.  I'm  not  going  to  pack  that 
fast.  It's  too  late.  I'm  not  going  to  be  ordered  out  of  here  like 
a  servant." 

Her  mother  groaned,  but  she  gave  in.  Carlotta  could  not  be 
made  to  do  anything  she  did  not  want  to  do.  She  went  to  her 
room,  and  presently  Mrs.  Hibberdell  heard  her  singing.  She 
shook  her  head.  Such  a  personality.  No  wonder  Eugene  suc- 
cumbed to  her  blandishments.  What  man  wouldn't  ? 


CHAPTER   XXV 

THE  sequel  of  this  scene  was  not  to  be  waited  for.  At  din- 
ner time  Mrs.  Hibberdell  announced  in  the  presence  of 
Carlotta  and  Davis  that  the  house  was  going  to  be  closed  up  for 
the  present,  and  very  quickly.  She  and  Carlotta  were  going 
to  Narragansett  for  the  month  of  September  and  a  part  of  Oc- 
tober. Eugene,  having  been  forewarned  by  Carlotta,  took  it  with 
a  show  of  polite  surprise.  He  was  sorry.  He  had  spent  such 
a  pleasant  time  here.  Mrs.  Hibberdell  could  not  be  sure  whether 
Carlotta  had  told  him  or  not,  he  seemed  so  innocent,  but  she  as- 
sumed that  she  had  and  that  he  like  Carlotta  was  "putting  on." 
She  had  informed  Davis  that  for  reasons  of  her  own  she  wanted 
to  do  this.  He  suspected  what  they  were,  for  he  had  seen  signs 
and  slight  demonstrations  which  convinced  him  that  Carlotta 
and  Eugene  had  reached  an  understanding.  He  did  not  con- 
sider it  anything  very  much  amiss,  for  Carlotta  was  a  woman  of 
the  world,  her  own  boss  and  a  "good  fellow."  She  had  always 
been  nice  to  him.  He  did  not  want  to  put  any  obstacles  in  her 
way.  In  addition,  he  liked  Eugene.  Once  he  had  said  to  Car- 
lotta jestingly,  "Well,  his  arms  are  almost  as  long  as  Norman's — 
not  quite  maybe." 

"You  go  to  the  devil,"  was  her  polite  reply. 

Tonight  a  storm  came  up,  a  brilliant,  flashing  summer  storm. 
Eugene  went  out  on  the  porch  to  watch  it.  Carlotta  came  also. 

"Well,  wTise  man,"  she  said,  as  the  thunder  rolled.  "It's  all 
over  up  here.  Don't  let  on.  I'll  see  you  wherever  you  go,  but 
this  was  so  nice.  It  was  fine  to  have  you  near  me.  Don't  get 
blue,  will  you?  She  says  she  may  write  your  wife,  but  I  don't 
think  she  will.  If  she  thinks  I'm  behaving,  she  won't.  I'll  try 
and  fool  her.  It's  too  bad,  though.  I'm  crazy  about  you,  Genie." 

Now  that  he  was  in  danger  of  losing  Carlotta,  her  beauty  took 
on  a  special  significance  for  Eugene.  He  had  come  into  such 
close  contact  with  her,  had  seen  her  under  such  varied  conditions, 
that  he  had  come  to  feel  a  profound  admiration  for  not  only  her 
beauty  but  her  intellect  and  ability  as  well.  One  of  his  weak- 
nesses was  that  he  was  inclined  to  see  much  more  in  those  he  ad- 
mired than  was  really  there.  He  endowed  them  with  the  ro- 
mance of  his  own  moods — saw  in  them  the  ability  to  do  things 
which  he  only  could  do.  In  doing  this  of  course  he  flattered 

356 


THE   "'GENIUS'1  357 

their  vanity,  aroused  their  self-confidence,  made  them  feel  them- 
selves the  possessors  of  latent  powers  and  forces  which  before 
him  they  had  only  dreamed  of.  Margaret,  Ruby,  Angela,  Chris- 
tina and  Carlotta  had  all  gained  this  feeling  from  him.  They 
had  a  better  opinion  of  themselves  for  having  known  him.  Now 
as  he  looked  at  Carlotta  he  was  intensely  sorry,  for  she  was  so 
calm,  so  affable,  so  seemingly  efficient  and  self  reliant,  and  such  a 
comfort  to  him  in  these  days. 

"Circe!"  he  said,  "this  is  too  bad.  I'm  sorry.  I'm  going 
to  hate  to  lose  you." 

"You  won't  lose  me,"  she  replied.  "You  can't.  I  won't  let 
you.  I've  found  you  now  and  I'm  going  to  keep  you.  This  don't 
mean  anything.  We  can  find  places  to  meet.  Get  a  place  where 
they  have  a  phone  if  you  can.  When  do  you  think  you'll  go  ?" 

"Right  away,"  said  Eugene.  "I'll  take  tomorrow  morning  off 
and  look." 

"Poor  Eugene,"  she  said  sympathetically.  "It's  too  bad. 
Never  mind  though.  Everything  will  come  out  right." 

She  was  still  not  counting  on  Angela.  She  thought  that  even 
if  Angela  came  back,  as  Eugene  told  her  she  would  soon,  a  joint 
arrangement  might  possibly  be  made.  Angela  could  be  here,  but 
she,  Carlotta,  could  share  Eugene  in  some  way.  She  thought 
she  would  rather  live  with  him  than  any  other  man  on  earth. 

It  was  only  about  noon  the  next  morning  when  Eugene  had 
found  another  room,  for,  in  living  here  so  long,  he  had  thought 
of  several  methods  by  which  he  might  have  obtained  a  room  in 
the  first  place.  There  was  another  church,  a  library,  the  post- 
master and  the  ticket  agent  at  Speonk  who  lived  in  the  village. 
He  went  first  to  the  postmaster  and  learned  of  two  families,  one 
the  home  of  a  civil  engineer,  where  he  might  be  welcome,  and  it 
was  here  that  he  eventually  settled.  The  view  was  not  quite  so 
attractive,  but  it  was  charming,  and  he  had  a  good  room  and 
good  meals.  He  told  them  that  he  might  not  stay  long,  for  his 
wife  was  coming  back  soon.  The  letters  from  Angela  were  be- 
coming most  importunate. 

He  gathered  up  his  belongings  at  Mrs.  Hibberdell's  and  took 
a  polite  departure.  After  he  was  gone  Mrs.  Hibberdell  of 
course  changed  her  mind,  and  Carlotta  returned  to  her  apartment 
in  New  York.  She  communicated  with  Eugene  not  only  by 
phone  but  by  special  delivery,  and  had  him  meet  her  at  a  con- 
venient inn  the  second  evening  of  his  departure.  She  was  plan- 
ning some  sort  of  a  separate  apartment  for  them,  when  Eugene 
informed  her  that  Angela  was  already  on  her  way  to  New  York 
and  that  nothing  could  be  done  at  present. 


358  THE   "GENIUS" 

Since  Eugene  had  left  her  at  Biloxi,  Angela  had  spent  a  most 
miserable  period  of  seven  months.  She  had  been  grieving  her 
heart  out,  for  she  imagined  him  to  be  most  lonely,  and  at  the 
same  time  she  was  regretful  that  she  had  ever  left  him.  She 
might  as  well  have  been  with  him.  She  figured  afterward  that 
she  might  have  borrowed  several  hundred  dollars  from  one  of 
her  brothers,  and  carried  out  the  fight  for  his  mental  recovery 
by  his  side.  Once  he  had  gone  she  fancied  she  might  have  made 
a  mistake  matrimonially,  for  he  was  so  impressionable — but  his 
condition  was  such  that  she  did  not  deem  him  to  be  interested 
in  anything  save  his  recovery.  Besides,  his  attitude  toward  her 
of  late  had  been  so  affectionate  and  in  a  way  dependent.  All 
her  letters  since  he  had  left  had  been  most  tender,  speaking  of 
his  sorrow  at  this  necessary  absence  and  hoping  that  the  time 
would  soon  come  when  they  could  be  together.  The  fact  that 
he  was  lonely  finally  decided  her  and  she  wrote  that  she  was 
coming  whether  he  wanted  her  to  or  not. 

Her  arrival  would  have  made  little  difference  except  that 
by  now  he  was  thoroughly  weaned  away  from  her  again,  had 
obtained  a  new  ideal  and  was  interested  only  to  see  and  be  with 
Carlotta.  The  latter's  easy  financial  state,  her  nice  clothes,  her 
familiarity  with  comfortable  and  luxurious  things — better  things 
than  Eugene  had  ever  dreamed  of  enjoying — her  use  of  the 
automobile,  her  freedom  in  the  matter  of  expenditures — taking 
the  purchase  of  champagne  and  expensive  meals  as  a  matter  of 
course — dazzled  and  fascinated  him.  It  was  rather  an  astonish- 
ing thing,  he  thought,  to  have  so  fine  a  woman  fall  in  love  with 
him.  Besides,  her  tolerance,  her  indifference  to  petty  conven- 
tions, her  knowledge  of  life  and  literature  and  art — set  her  in 
marked  contrast  to  Angela,  and  in  all  ways  she  seemed  rare 
and  forceful  to  him.  He  wished  from  his  heart  that  he  could 
be  free  and  could  have  her. 

Into  this  peculiar  situation  Angela  precipitated  herself  one 
bright  Saturday  afternoon  in  September.  She  was  dying  to  see 
Eugene  again.  Full  of  grave  thoughts  for  his  future,  she  had 
come  to  share  it  whatever  it  might  be.  Her  one  idea  was  that 
he  was  sick  and  depressed  and  lonely.  None  of  his  letters  had 
been  cheerful  or  optimistic,  for  of  course  he  did  not  dare  to  con- 
fess the  pleasure  he  was  having  in  Carlotta's  company.  In  order 
to  keep  her  away  he  had  to  pretend  that  lack  of  funds  made  it 
inadmissible  for  her  to  be  here.  The  fact  that  he  was  spending, 
and  by  the  time  she  arrived  had  spent,  nearly  the  whole  of  the 
three  hundred  dollars  his  picture  sold  to  Carlotta  had  brought 
him,  had  troubled  him — not  unduly,  of  course,  or  he  would  not 


THE   "GENIUS"  359 

have  done  it.  He  had  qualms  of  conscience,  severe  ones,  but 
they  passed  with  the  presence  of  Carlotta  or  the  reading  of  his 
letters  from  Angela. 

"I  don't  know  what's  the  matter  with  me,"  he  said  to  him- 
self from  time  to  time.  "I  guess  I'm  no  good."  He  thought  it 
was  a  blessing  that  the  world  could  not  see  him  as  he  was. 

One  of  the  particular  weaknesses  of  Eugene's  which  should 
be  set  forth  here  and  which  will  help  to  illuminate  the  bases  of 
his  conduct  was  that  he  was  troubled  with  a  dual  point  of  view 
— a  condition  based  upon  a  peculiar  power  of  analysis — self- 
analysis  in  particular,  which  was  constantly  permitting  him  to 
tear  himself  up  by  the  roots  in  order  to  see  how  he  was  getting 
along.  He  would  daily  and  hourly  when  not  otherwise  em- 
ployed lift  the  veil  from  his  inner  mental  processes  as  he  might 
lift  the  covering  from  a  well,  and  peer  into  its  depths.  What 
he  saw  was  not  very  inviting  and  vastly  disconcerting,  a  piece 
of  machinery  that  was  not  going  as  a  true  man  should,  clock 
fashion,  and  corresponding  in  none  of  its  moral  characteristics 
to  the  recognized  standard  of  a  man.  He  had  concluded  by 
now,  from  watching  various  specimens,  that  sane  men  were  hon- 
est, some  inherently  moral,  some  regulated  by  a  keen  sense  of 
duty,  and  occasionally  all  of  these  virtues  and  others  were  bound 
up  in  one  man.  Angela's  father  was  such  an  one.  M.  Charles 
appeared  to  be  another.  He  had  concluded  from  his  association 
with  Jerry  Mathevvs,  Philip  Shotmeyer,  Peter  MacHugh  and 
Joseph  Smite  that  they  were  all  rather  decent  in  respect  to  mor- 
als. He  had  never  seen  them  under  temptation  but  he  imagined 
they  were.  Such  a  man  as  William  Haverford,  the  Engineer 
of  Maintenance  of  Way,  and  Henry  C.  Litlebrown,  the  Di- 
vision Engineer  of  this  immense  road,  struck  him  as  men  who 
must  have  stuck  close  to  a  sense  of  duty  and  the  conventions  of 
the  life  they  represented,  working  hard  all  the  time,  to  have 
attained  the  positions  they  had.  All  this  whole  railroad  system 
which  he  was  watching  closely  from  day  to  day  from  his  little 
vantage  point  of  connection  with  it,  seemed  a  clear  illustration 
of  the  need  of  a  sense  of  duty  and  reliability.  All  of  these  men 
who  worked  for  this  company  had  to  be  in  good  health,  all  had 
to  appear  at  their  posts  on  the  tick  of  the  clock,  all  had  to  per- 
form faithfully  the  duties  assigned  them,  or  there  would  be  dis- 
asters. Most  of  them  had  climbed  by  long,  arduous  years  of 
work  to  very  modest  positions  of  prominence,  as  conductors,  en- 
gineers, foremen,  division  superintendents.  Others  more  gifted 
or  more  blessed  by  fortune  became  division  engineers,  superin- 
tendents, vice-presidents  and  presidents.  They  were  all  slow 


360  THE   "GENIUS" 

climbers,  rigid  in  their  sense  of  duty,  tireless  in  their  energy, 
exact,  thoughtful.  What  was  he? 

He  looked  into  the  well  of  his  being  and  there  he  saw  noth- 
ing but  shifty  and  uncertain  currents.  It  was  very  dark  down 
there.  He  was  not  honest,  he  said  to  himself,  except  in  money 
matters — he  often  wondered  why.  He  was  not  truthful.  He 
was  not  moral.  This  love  of  beauty  which  haunted  him  seemed 
much  more  important  than  anything  else  in  the  world,  and  his 
pursuit  of  that  seemed  to  fly  in  the  face  of  everything  else  which 
was  established  and  important.  He  found  that  men  everywhere 
did  not  think  much  of  a  man  who  was  crazy  after  women. 
They  might  joke  about  an  occasional  lapse  as  an  amiable  vice 
or  one  which  could  be  condoned,  but  they  wanted  little  to  do 
with  a  man  who  was  overpowered  by  it.  There  was  a  case  over 
in  the  railroad  yard  at  Speonk  recently  which  he  had  noted,  of 
a  foreman  who  had  left  his  wife  and  gone  after  some  hoyden 
in  White  Plains,  and  because  of  this  offense  he  was  promptly 
discharged.  It  appeared,  though,  that  before  this  he  had  occasion- 
ally had  such  lapses  and  that  each  time  he  had  been  discharged, 
but  had  been  subsequently  forgiven.  This  one  weakness,  and 
no  other,  had  given  him  a  bad  reputation  among  his  fellow  rail- 
road men — much  as  that  a  drunkard  might  have.  Big  John 
Peters,  the  engineer,  had  expressed  it  aptly  to  Eugene  one  day 
when  he  told  him  in  confidence  that  "Ed  Bowers  would  go  to 
hell  for  his  hide,"  the  latter  being  the  local  expression  for  women. 
Everybody  seemed  to  pity  him,  and  the  man  seemed  in  a  way 
to  pity  himself.  He  had  a  hang-dog  look  when  he  was  re-in- 
stated, and  yet  everybody  knew  that  apart  from  this  he  was  a 
fairly  competent  foreman.  Still  it  was  generally  understood  that 
he  would  never  get  anywhere. 

From  that  Eugene  argued  to  himself  that  a  man  who  was 
cursed  with  this  peculiar  vice  could  not  get  anywhere;  that  he, 
if  he  kept  it  up,  would  not.  It  was  like  drinking  and  stealing, 
and  the  face  of  the  world  was  against  it.  Very  frequently 
it  went  hand  in  hand  with  those  things — "birds  of  a  feather" 
he  thought.  Still  he  was  cursed  with  it,  and  he  no  more  than 
Ed  Bowers  appeared  to  be  able  to  conquer  it.  At  least  he  was 
yielding  to  it  now  as  he  had  before.  It  mattered  not  that  the 
women  he  chose  were  exceptionally  beautiful  and  fascinating. 
They  were  women,  and  ought  he  to  want  them?  He  had 
one.  He  had  taken  a  solemn  vow  to  love  and  cherish  her,  or 
at  least  had  gone  through  the  formality  of  such  a  vow,  and  here 
he  was  running  about  with  Carlotta,  as  he  had  with  Christina 
and  Ruby  before  her.  Was  he  not  always  looking  for  some  such 


THE"  GENIUS"  361 

woman  as  this?  Certainly  he  was.  Had  he  not  far  better  be 
seeking  for  wealth,  distinction,  a  reputation  for  probity,  chas- 
tity, impeccable  moral  honor?  Certainly  he  had.  It  was  the 
way  to  distinction  apparently,  assuming  the  talent,  and  here  he 
was  doing  anything  but  take  that  way.  Conscience  was  his  bar- 
rier, a  conscience  unmodified  by  cold  self-interest.  Shame  upon 
himself!  Shame  upon  his  weak-kneed  disposition,  not  to  be  able 
to  recover  from  this  illusion  of  beauty.  Such  were  some  of  the 
thoughts  which  his  moments  of  introspection  brought  him. 

On  the  other  hand,  there  came  over  him  that  other  phase  of 
his  duality — the  ability  to  turn  his  terrible  searchlight  of  intelli- 
gence which  swept  the  heavens  and  the  deep  as  with  a  great 
white  ray — upon  the  other  side  of  the  question.  It  revealed" 
constantly  the  inexplicable  subtleties  and  seeming  injustices  of 
nature.  He  could  not  help  seeing  how  the  big  fish  fed  upon 
the  little  ones,  the  strong  were  constantly  using  the  weak  as 
pawns;  the  thieves,  the  grafters,  the  murderers  were  sometimes 
allowed  to  prey  on  society  without  let  or  hindrance.  Good  was 
not  always  rewarded — frequently  terribly  ill-rewarded.  Evil 
was  seen  to  flourish  beautifully  at  times.  It  was  all  right  to  say 
that  it  would  be  punished,  but  would  it?  Carlotta  did  not  think 
so.  She  did  not  think  the  thing  she  was  doing  with  him  was 
very  evil.  She  had  said  to  him  over  and  over  that  it  was  an 
open  question,  that  he  was  troubled  with  an  ingrowing  con- 
science. "I  don't  think  it's  so  bad,"  she  once  told  him.  "It 
depends  somewhat  on  how  you  were  raised."  There  was  a  sys- 
tem apparently  in  society,  but  also  apparently  it  did  not  work 
very  well.  Only  fools  were  held  by  religion,  which  in  the  main 
was  an  imposition,  a  graft  and  a  lie.  The  honest  man  might  be 
very  fine  but  he  wasn't  very  successful.  There  was  a  great  to-do 
about  morals,  but  most  people  were  immoral  or  unmoral.  Why 
worry?  Look  to  your  health!  Don't  let  a  morbid  conscience 
get  the  better  of  you.  Thus  she  counselled,  and  he  agreed  with 
her.  For  the  rest  the  survival  of  the  fittest  was  the  best.  Why- 
should  he  worry?  He  had  talent. 

It  was  thus  that  Eugene  floundered  to  and  fro,  and  it  was  in 
this  state,  brooding  and  melancholy,  that  Angela  found  him  on 
her  arrival.  He  was  as  gay  as  ever  at  times,  when  he  was  not 
thinking,  but  he  was  very  thin  and  hollow-eyed,  and  Angela 
fancied  that  it  was  overwork  and  worry  which  kept  him  in  this 
state.  Why  had  she  left  him?  Poor  Eugene!  She  had  clung 
desperately  to  the  money  he  had  given  her,  and  had  most  of  it 
with  her  ready  to  be  expended  now  for  his  care.  She  was  so 
anxious  for  his  recovery  and  his  peace  of  mind  that  she  was 


362  THE    "GENIUS'1 

ready  to  go  to  work  herself  at  anything  she  could  find,  in  order 
to  make  his  path  more  easy.  She  was  thinking  that  fate  was 
terribly  unjust  to  him,  and  when  he  had  gone  to  sleep  beside 
her  the  first  night  she  lay  awake  and  cried.  Poor  Eugene!  To 
think  he  should  be  tried  so  by  fate.  Nevertheless,  he  should  not 
be  tortured  by  anything  which  she  could  prevent.  She  was  going 
to  make  him  as  comfortable  and  happy  as  she  could.  She  set 
about  to  find  some  nice  little  apartment  or  rooms  where  they 
could  live  in  peace  and  \vhere  she  could  cook  Eugene's  meals 
for  him.  She  fancied  that  maybe  his  food  had  not  been  exactly 
right,  and  when  she  got  him  where  she  could  manifest  a  pre- 
tence of  self-confidence  and  courage  that  he  wrould  take  courage 
from  her  and  grow  better.  So  she  set  briskly  about  her  task, 
honeying  Eugene  the  while,  for  she  was  confident  that  this  above 
all  things  was  the  thing  he  needed.  She  little  suspected  what 
a  farce  it  all  appeared  to  him,  how  mean  and  contemptible  he 
appeared  to  himself.  He  did  not  care  to  be  mean — to  rapidly 
disillusion  her  and  go  his  way;  and  yet  this  dual  existence  sick- 
ened him.  He  could  not  help  but  feel  that  from  a  great  many 
points  of  view  Angela  was  better  than  Carlotta.  Yet  the  other 
woman  was  wider  in  her  outlook,  more  gracious  in  her  appear- 
ance, more  commanding,  more  subtle.  She  was  a  princess  of 
the  world,  subtle,  deadly  Machiavellian,  but  a  princess  neverthe- 
less. Angela  was  better  described  by  the  current  and  acceptable 
phrase  of  the  time — a  "thoroughly  good  woman,"  honest,  ener- 
getic, resourceful,  in  all  things  obedient  to  the  race  spirit  and 
the  conventional  feelings  of  the  time.  He  knew  that  society 
would  support  her  thoroughly  and  condemn  Carlotta,  and  yet 
Carlotta  interested  him  more.  He  wished  that  he  might  have 
both  and  no  fussing.  Then  all  would  be  beautiful.  So  he 
thought. 


CHAPTER   XXVI 

THE  situation  which  here  presented  itself  was  subject  to  no 
such  gracious  and  generous  development.  Angela  was  the 
soul  of  watchfulness,  insistence  on  duty,  consideration  for  right 
conduct  and  for  the  privileges,  opportunities  and  emoluments 
which  belonged  to  her  as  the  wife  of  a  talented  artist,  tem- 
porarily disabled,  it  is  true,  but  certain  to  be  distinguished 
in  the  future.  She  was  deluding  herself  that  this  recent  experi- 
ence of  reverses  had  probably  hardened  and  sharpened  Eugene's 
practical  instincts,  made  him  less  indifferent  to  the  necessity  of 
looking  out  for  himself,  given  him  keener  instincts  of  self-pro- 
tection and  economy.  He  had  done  very  well  to  live  on  so  little 
she  thought,  but  they  were  going  to  do  better — they  were  going 
to  save.  She  was  going  to  give  up  those  silly  dreams  she  had 
entertained  of  a  magnificent  studio  and  hosts  of  friends,  and  she 
was  going  to  start  now  saving  a  fraction  of  whatever  they  made, 
however  small  it  might  be,  if  it  were  only  ten  cents  a  week. 
If  Eugene  could  only  make  nine  dollars  a  week  by  working  every 
day,  they  were  going  to  live  on  that.  He  still  had  ninety-seven 
of  the  hundred  dollars  he  had  brought  with  him,  he  told  her, 
and  this  was  going  in  the  bank.  He  did  not  tell  her  of  the  sale 
of  one  of  his  pictures  and  of  the  subsequent  dissipation  of  the 
proceeds.  In  the  bank,  too,  they  were  going  to  put  any  money 
from  subsequent  sales  until  he  was  on  his  feet  again.  One  of 
these  days  if  they  ever  made  any  money,  they  were  going  to  buy 
a  house  somewhere  in  which  they  could  live  without  paying  rent. 
Some  of  the  money  in  the  bank,  a  very  little  of  it,  might  go  for 
clothes  if  worst  came  to  worst,  but  it  would  not  be  touched 
unless  it  was  absolutely  necessary.  She  needed  clothes  now, 
but  that  did  not  matter.  To  Eugene's  ninety-seven  was  added 
Angela's  two  hundred  and  twenty-eight  which  she  brought  with 
her,  and  this  total  sum  of  three  hundred  and  twenty-five  dollars 
was  promptly  deposited  in  the  Bank  of  Riverwood. 

Angela  by  personal  energy  and  explanation  found  four  rooms 
in  the  house  of  a  furniture  manufacturer;  it  had  been  vacated 
by  a  daughter  who  had  married,  and  they  were  glad  to  let  it  to 
an  artist  and  his  wife  for  practically  nothing  so  far  as  real 
worth  was  concerned,  for  this  was  a  private  house  in  a  lovely 
lawn.  Twelve  dollars  per  month  was  the  charge.  Mrs.  Witla 
seemed  very  charming  to  Mrs.  Desenas,  who  was  the  wife  of 

363 


364  THE    "GENIUS' 

the  manufacturer,  and  for  her  especial  benefit  a  little  bedroom 
on  the  second  floor  adjoining  a  bath  was  turned  into  a  kitchen, 
with  a  small  gas  stove,  and  Angela  at  once  began  housekeeping 
operations  on  the  tiny  basis  necessitated  by  their  income.  Some 
furniture  had  to  be  secured,  for  the  room  was  not  completely 
furnished,  but  Angela  by  haunting  the  second-hand  stores  in 
New  York,  looking  through  all  the  department  stores,  and  visit- 
ing certain  private  sales,  managed  to  find  a  few  things  which 
she  could  buy  cheaply  and  which  would  fit  in  with  the  dressing 
table,  library  table,  dining  table  and  one  bed  which  were  already 
provided.  The  necessary  curtains  for  the  bath  and  kitchen  win- 
dows she  cut,  decorated  and  hung  for  herself.  She  went  down 
to  the  storage  company  where  the  unsold  and  undisplayed  portion 
of  Eugene's  pictures  were  and  brought  back  seven,  which  she 
placed  in  the  general  living-room  and  dining-room.  All  Eugene's 
clothes,  his  underwear  and  socks  particularly,  received  her  im- 
mediate attention,  and  she  soon  had  his  rather  attenuated  ward- 
robe in  good  condition.  From  the  local  market  she  bought  good 
vegetables  and  a  little  meat  and  made  delightful  stews,  ra- 
gouts, combinations  of  eggs  and  tasty  meat  juices  after  the 
French  fashion.  All  her  housekeeping  art  was  employed  to  the 
utmost  to  make  everything  look  clean  and  neat,  to  maintain  a 
bountiful  supply  of  varied  food  on  the  table  and  yet  to  keep  the 
cost  down,  so  that  they  could  not  only  live  on  nine  dollars  a 
week,  but  set  aside  a  dollar  or  more  of  that  for  what  Angela 
called  their  private  bank  account.  She  had  a  little  hollow  brown 
jug,  calculated  to  hold  fifteen  dollars  in  change,  which  could 
be  opened  when  full,  which  she  conscientiously  endeavored  to 
fill  and  refill.  Her  one  desire  was  to  rehabilitate  her  husband 
in  the  eyes  of  the  world — this  time  to  stay — and  she  was  de- 
termined to  do  it. 

For  another  thing,  reflection  and  conversation  with  one  per- 
son and  another  had  taught  her  that  it  was  not  well  for  herself 
or  for  Eugene  for  her  to  encourage  him  in  his  animal  passions. 
Some  woman  in  Blackwood  had  pointed  out  a  local  case  of  loco- 
motor-ataxia  which  had  resulted  from  lack  of  self-control,  and 
she  had  learned  that  it  was  believed  that  many  other  nervous 
troubles  sprang  from  the  same  source.  Perhaps  Eugene's  had. 
She  had  resolved  to  protect  him  from  himself.  She  did  not  be- 
lieve she  could  be  injured,  but  Eugene  was  so  sensitive,  so  emo- 
tional. 

The  trouble  with  the  situation  was  that  it  was  such  a  sharp 
change  from  his  recent  free  and  to  him  delightful  mode  of  ex- 
istence that  it  was  almost  painful.  He  could  see  that  every- 


THE    "GENIUS'  365 

thing  appeared  to  be  satisfactory  to  her,  that  she  thought  all  his 
days  had  been  moral  and  full  of  hard  work.  Carlotta's  pres- 
ence in  the  background  was  not  suspected.  Her  idea  was  that 
they  would  work  hard  together  now  along  simple,  idealistic  lines 
to  the  one  end — success  for  him,  and  of  course,  by  reflection,  for 
her. 

Eugene  saw  the  charm  of  it  wrell  enough,  but  it  was  only  as 
something  quite  suitable  for  others.  He  was  an  artist.  The 
common  laws  of  existence  could  not  reasonably  apply  to  an 
artist.  The  latter  should  have  intellectual  freedom,  the  privi- 
lege of  going  where  he  pleased,  associating  with  whom  he  chose. 
This  marriage  business  was  a  galling  yoke,  cutting  off  all  ra- 
tional opportunity  for  enjoyment,  and  he  was  now  after  a  brief 
period  of  freedom  having  that  yoke  heavily  adjusted  to  his  neck 
again.  Gone  were  all  the  fine  dreams  of  pleasure  and  happiness 
wrhich  so  recently  had  been  so  real — the  hope  of  living  with  Car- 
lotta — the  hope  of  associating  with  her  on  easy  and  natural  terms 
in  that  superior  world  which  she  represented.  Angela's  insist- 
ence on  the  thought  that  he  should  work  every  day  and  bring 
home  nine  dollars  a  week,  or  rather  its  monthly  equivalent, 
made  it  necessary  for  him  to  take  sharp  care  of  the  little  money 
he  had  kept  out  of  the  remainder  of  the  three  hundred  in  order 
to  supply  any  deficiency  which  might  occur  from  his  taking  time 
off.  For  there  was  no  opportunity  now  of  seeing  Carlotta  of 
an  evening,  and  it  was  necessary  to  take  a  regular  number  of 
afternoons  or  mornings  off  each  week,  in  order  to  meet  her.  He 
would  leave  the  little  apartment  as  usual  at  a  quarter  to  seven 
in  the  morning,  dressed  suitably  for  possible  out-door  expedi- 
tions, for  in  anticipation  of  difficulty  he  had  told  Angela  that  it 
was  his  custom  to  do  this,  and  sometimes  he  would  go  to  the 
factory  and  sometimes  he  would  not.  There  was  a  car  line 
which  carried  him  rapidly  cityward  to  a  rendezvous,  and  he 
would  either  ride  or  walk  with  her  as  the  case  might  be.  There 
was  constant  thought  on  his  and  her  part  of  the  risk  involved,  but 
still  they  persisted.  By  some  stroke  of  ill  or  good  fortune  Nor- 
man Wilson  returned  from  Chicago,  so  that  Carlotta's  move- 
ments had  to  be  calculated  to  a  nicety,  but  she  did  not  care.  She 
trusted  most  to  the  automobiles  which  she  could  hire  at  con- 
venient garages  and  which  would  carry  them  rapidly  away  from 
the  vicinity  where  they  might  be  seen  and  recognized. 

It  was  a  tangled  life,  difficult  and  dangerous.  There  was  no 
peace  in  it,  for  there  is  neither  peace  nor  happiness  in  deception. 
A  burning  joy  at  one  time  was  invariably  followed  by  a  dis- 
turbing remorse  afterward.  There  was  Carlotta's  mother,  Nor- 


366  THE    '  'GENIUS13 

man  Wilson,  and  Angela,  to  guard  against,  to  say  nothing  of  the 
constant  pricking  of  his  own  conscience. 

It  is  almost  a  foregone  conclusion  in  any  situation  of  this 
kind  that  it  cannot  endure.  The  seed  of  its  undoing  is  in  itself. 
We  think  that  our  actions  when  unseen  of  mortal  eyes  resolve 
themselves  into  nothingness,  but  this  is  not  true.  They  are 
woven  indefinably  into  our  being,  and  shine  forth  ultimately  as 
the  real  self,  in  spite  of  all  our  pretences.  One  could  almost 
accept  the  Brahmanistic  dogma  of  a  psychic  body  which  sees 
and  is  seen  where  we  dream  all  to  be  darkness.  There  is  no 
other  supposition  on  which  to  explain  the  facts  of  intuition.  So 
many  individuals  have  it.  They  know  so  well  without  knowing 
why  they  know. 

Angela  had  this  intuitive  power  in  connection  with  Eugene. 
Because  of  her  great  affection  for  him  she  divined  or  appre- 
hended many  things  in  connection  with  him  long  before  they 
occurred.  Throughout  her  absence  from  him  she  had  been 
haunted  by  the  idea  that  she  ought  to  be  with  him,  and  now  that 
she  was  here  and  the  first  excitement  of  contact  and  adjustment 
was  over,  she  was  beginning  to  be  aware  of  something.  Eugene 
was  not  the  same  as  he  had  been  a  little  while  before  he  had  left 
her.  His  attitude,  in  spite  of  a  kindly  show  of  affection,  was 
distant  and  preoccupied.  He  had  no  real  power  of  concealing 
anything.  He  appeared  at  times — at  most  times  when  he  was 
with  her — to  be  lost  in  a  mist  of  speculation.  He  was  lonely 
and  a  little  love-sick,  because  under  the  pressure  of  home  affairs 
Carlotta  was  not  able  to  see  him  quite  so  much.  At  the  same 
time,  now  that  the  fall  was  coming  on,  he  was  growing  weary 
of  the  shop  at  Speonk,  for  the  gray  days  and  slight  chill  which 
settled  upon  the  earth  at  times  caused  the  shop  windows  to  be 
closed  and  robbed  the  yard  of  that  air  of  romance  which  had 
characterized  it  when  he  first  came  there.  He  could  not  take 
his  way  of  an  evening  along  the  banks  of  the  stream  to  the  arms 
of  Carlotta.  The  novelty  of  Big  John  and  Joseph  Mews  and 
Malachi  Dempsey  and  Little  Suddsy  had  worn  off.  He  was 
beginning  now  to  see  also  that  they  were  nothing  but  plain  work- 
ingmen  after  all,  worrying  over  the  fact  that  they  were  not 
getting  more  than  fifteen  or  seventeen  and  a  half  cents  an  hour; 
jealous  of  each  other  and  their  superiors,  full  of  all  the  frailties 
and  weaknesses  to  which  the  flesh  is  heir. 

His  coming  had  created  a  slight  diversion  for  them,  for  he 
was  very  strange,  but  his  strangeness  was  no  longer  a  novelty. 
They  were  beginning  to  see  him  also  as  a  relatively  commonplace 
human  being.  He  was  an  artist,  to  be  sure,  but  his  actions  and 


THE    "GENIUS'  367 

intentions  were  not  so  vastly  different  from  those  of  other  men. 

A  shop  of  this  kind,  like  any  other  institution  where  people 
are  compelled  by  force  of  circumstances  to  work  together 
whether  the  weather  be  fair  or  foul,  or  the  mood  grave  or 
gay,  can  readily  become  and  frequently  does  become  a  veritable 
hell.  Human  nature  is  a  subtle,  jrritable,  irrational  thing.  It 
is  not  so  much  governed  by  rules  of  ethics  and  conditions  of 
understanding  as  a  thing  of  moods  and  temperament.  Eugene 
could  easily  see,  philosopher  that  he  was,  that  these  people  would 
come  here  enveloped  in  some  mist  of  home  trouble  or  secret 
illness  or  grief  and  would  conceive  that  somehow  it  was  not 
their  state  of  mind  but  the  things  around  them  which  were  the 
cause  of  all  their  woe.  Sour  looks  would  breed  sour  looks  in 
return ;  a  gruff  question  would  beget  a  gruff  answer ;  there  were 
long-standing  grudges  between  one  man  and  another,  based  on 
nothing  more  than  a  grouchy  observation  at  one  time  in  the 
past.  He  thought  by  introducing  gaiety  and  persistent,  if 
make-believe,  geniality  that  he  was  tending  to  obviate  and  over- 
come the  general  condition,  but  this  was  only  relatively  true. 
His  own  gaiety  was  capable  of  becoming  as  much  of  a  weari- 
ness to  those  who  were  out  of  the  spirit  of  it,  as  was  the  sour 
brutality  with  which  at  times  he  was  compelled  to  contend.  So 
he  wished  that  he  might  arrange  to  get  well  and  get  out  of  here, 
or  at  least  change  his  form  of  work,  for  it  was  plain  to  be  seen 
that  this  condition  would  not  readily  improve.  His  presence  was 
a  commonplace.  His  power  to  entertain  and  charm  was  practi- 
cally gone. 

This  situation,  coupled  with  Angela's  spirit  of  honest  con- 
servatism was  bad,  but  it  was  destined  to  be  much  worse.  From 
watching  him  and  endeavoring  to  decipher  his  moods,  Angela 
came  to  suspect  something — she  could  not  say  what.  He  did  not 
love  her  as  much  as  he  had.  There  was  a  coolness  in  his  caresses 
which  was  not  there  when  he  left  her.  What  could  have  hap- 
pened, she  asked  herself.  Was  it  just  absence,  or  what?  One 
day  when  he  had  returned  from  an  afternoon's  outing  with 
Carlotta  and  was  holding  her  in  his  arms  in  greeting,  she  asked 
him  solemnly: 

"Do  you  love  me,  Honeybun?" 

"You  know  I  do/'  he  asseverated,  but  without  any  energy,  for 
he  could  not  regain  his  old  original  feeling  for  her.  There  was 
no  trace  of  it,  only  sympathy,  pity,  and  a  kind  of  sorrow  that 
she  was  being  so  badly  treated  after  all  her  efforts. 

"No,  you  don't,"  she  replied,  detecting  the  hollow  ring  in 
what  he  said.  Her  voice  was  sad,  and  her  eyes  showed  traces 


368  THE    "GENIUS" 

of  that  wistful  despair  into  which  she  could  so  readily  sink  at 

times. 

"Why,  yes  I  do,  Angelface,"  he  insisted.     "What  makes  you 

ask?     What's  come  over  you?"     He  was  wondering  whether 

she  had  heard  anything  or  seen  anything  and  was  concealing  her 

knowledge  behind  this  preliminary  inquiry. 

"Nothing,"  she  replied.     "Only  you  don't  love  me.     I  don't 

know  what  it  is.     I  don't  know  why.     But  I  can  feel  it  right 

here,"  and  she  laid  her  hand  on  her  heart. 

The  action  was  sincere,  unstudied.  It  hurt  him,  for  it  was 
like  that  of  a  little  child. 

"Oh,  hush!     Don't  say  that,"  he  pleaded.     "You  know  I  do. 

Don't  look  so  gloomy.     I  love  you — don't  you  know  I  do?" 
and  he  kissed  her. 

"No,  no!"  said  Angela.  "I  know!  You  don't.  Oh,  dear; 
oh,  dear;  I  feel  so  bad!" 

Eugene  was  dreading  another  display  of  the  hysteria  with 
which  he  was  familiar,  but  it  did  not  come.  SKe  conquered 
her  mood,  inasmuch  as  she  had  no  real  basis  for  suspicion,  and 
went  about  the  work  of  getting  him  his  dinner.  She  was  de- 
pressed, though,  and  he  was  fearful.  What  if  she  should  ever 
find  out! 

More  days  passed.  Carlotta  called  him  up  at  the  shop  occa- 
sionally, for  there  was  no  phone  where  he  lived,  and  she  would 
not  have  risked  it  if  there  had  been.  She  sent  him  registered 
notes  to  be  signed  for,  addressed  to  Henry  Kingsland  and  di- 
rected to  the  post  office  at  Speonk.  Eugene  was  not  known 
there  as  Witla  and  easily  secured  these  missives,  which  were 
usually  very  guarded  in  their  expressions  and  concerned  appoint- 
ments— the  vaguest,  most  mysterious  directions,  which  he  un- 
derstood. They  made  arrangements  largely  from  meeting  to 
meeting,  saying,  "If  I  can't  keep  it  Thursday  at  two  it  will  be 
Friday  at  the  same  time;  and  if  not  then,  Saturday.  If  any- 
thing happens  I'll  send  you  a  registered  special."  So  it  went  on. 
One  noontime  Eugene  walked  down  to  the  little  post  office  at 
Speonk  to  look  for  a  letter,  for  Carlotta  had  not  been  able  to 
meet  him  the  previous  day  and  had  phoned  instead  that  she 
would  write  the  following  day.  He  found  it  safely  enough, 
and  after  glancing  at  it — it  contained  but  few  words — decided 
to  tear  it  up  as  usual  and  throw  the  pieces  away.  A  mere  ex- 
pression, "Ashes  of  Roses,"  which  she  sometimes  used  to  desig- 
nate herself,  and  the  superscription,  "Oh,  Genie!"  made  it, 
however,  inexpressibly  dear  to  him.  He  thought  he  would  hold 
it  in  his  possession  just  a  little  while — a  few  hours  longer.  It 


THE    "GENIUS"  369 

was  enigmatic  enough  to  anyone  but  himself,  he  thought,  even 
if  found.  "The  bridge,  two,  Wednesday."  The  bridge  re- 
ferred to  was  one  over  the  Harlem  at  Morris  Heights.  He 
kept  the  appointment  that  day  as  requested,  but  by  some  necro- 
mancy of  fate  he  forgot  the  letter  until  he  was  within  his  own 
door.  Then  he  took  it  out,  tore  it  up  into  four  or  five  pieces 
quickly,  put  it  in  his  vest  pocket,  and  went  upstairs  intending  at 
the  first  opportunity  to  dispose  of  it. 

Meanwhile,  Angela,  for  the  first  time  since  they  had  been 
living  at  Riverwood,  had  decided  to  walk  over  toward  the  fac- 
tory about  six  o'clock  and  meet  Eugene  on  his  way  home.  She 
heard  him  discourse  on  the  loveliness  of  this  stream  and  what  a 
pleasure  it  was  to  stroll  along  its  banks  morning  and  evening. 
He  was  so  fond  of  the  smooth  water  and  the  overhanging  leaves ! 
She  had  walked  with  him  there  already  on  several  Sundays. 
When  she  went  this  evening  she  thought  what  a  pleasant  sur- 
prise it  would  be  for  him,  for  she  had  prepared  everything  on 
leaving  so  that  his  supper  would  not  be  delayed  when  they  reached 
home.  She  heard  the  whistle  blow  as  she  neared  the  shop,  and, 
standing  behind  a  clump  of  bushes  on  the  thither  side  of  the 
stream,  she  waited,  expecting  to  pounce  out  on  Eugene  with  a 
loving  "Boo!"  He  did  not  come. 

The  forty  or  fifty  men  who  worked  here  trickled  out  like  a 
little  stream  of  black  ants,  and  then,  Eugene  not  appearing, 
Angela  went  over  to  the  gate  which  Joseph  Mews  in  the  official 
capacity  of  gateman,  after  the  whistle  blew,  was  closing. 

"Is  Mr.  Witla  here?"  asked  Angela,  peering  through  the  bars 
at  him.  Eugene  had  described  Joseph  so  accurately  to  her  that 
she  recognized  him  at  sight. 

"No,  ma'am,"  replied  Joseph,  quite  taken  back  by  this  at- 
tractive arrival,  for  good-looking  women  were  not  common  at 
the  shop  gate  of  the  factory.  "He  left  four  or  five  hours  ago. 
I  think  he  left  at  one  o'clock,  if  I  remember  right.  He  wasn't 
working  with  us  today.  He  was  working  out  in  the  yard." 

"You  don't  know  where  he  went,  do  you?"  asked  Angela,  who 
was  surprised  at  this  novel  information.  Eugene  had  not  said 
anything  about  going  anywhere.  Where  could  he  have  gone? 

"No'm,  I  don't,"  replied  Joseph'  volubly.  "He  sometimes 
goes  off  this  way — quite  frequent,  ma'am.  His  wife  calls  him 
up — er — now,  maybe  you're  his  wife." 

"I  am,"  said  Angela;  but  she  was  no  longer  thinking  of  what 
she  was  saying,  her  words  on  the  instant  were  becoming  me- 
chanical. Eugene  going  away  frequently?  He  had  never  said 
anything  to  her!  His  wife  calling  him  up!  Could  there  be 


370  THE    "GENIUS" 

another  woman!  Instantly  all  her  old  suspicions,  jealousies, 
fears,  awoke,  and  she  was  wondering  why  she  had  not  fixed  on 
this  fact  before.  That  explained  Eugene's  indifference,  of 
course.  That  explained  his  air  of  abstraction.  He  wasn't  think- 
ing of  her,  the  miserable  creature!  He  was  thinking  of  some- 
one else.  Still  she  could  not  be  sure,  for  she  had  no  proof. 
Two  adroit  questions  elicited  the  fact  that  no  one  in  the  shop 
had  ever  seen  his  wife.  He  had  just  gone  out.  A  woman  had 
called  up. 

Angela  took  her  way  home  amid  a  whirling  fire  of  conjecture. 
When  she  reached  it  Eugene  was  not  there  yet,  for  he  sometimes 
delayed  his  coming,  lingering,  as  he  said,  to  look  at  the  water. 
It  was  natural  enough  in  an  artist.  She  went  upstairs  and  hung 
the  broad-brimmed  straw  she  had  worn  in  the  closet,  and  went 
into  the  kitchen  to  await  his  coming.  Experience  with  him  and 
the  nature  of  her  own  temperament  determined  her  to  enact  a 
role  of  subtlety.  She  would  wait  until  he  spoke,  pretending 
that  she  had  not  been  out.  She  would  ask  whether  he  had  had 
a  hard  day,  and  see  whether  he  disclosed  the  fact  that  he  had 
been  away  from  the  factory.  That  would  show  her  positively 
what  he  was  doing  and  whether  he  was  deliberately  deceiving 
her. 

Eugene  came  up  the  stairs,  gay  enough  but  anxious  to  deposit 
the  scraps  of  paper  where  they  would  not  be  seen.  No  oppor- 
tunity came  for  Angela  was  there  to  greet  him. 

"Did  you  have  a  hard  job  today?"  she  asked,  noting  that  he 
made  no  preliminary  announcement  of  any  absence. 

"Not  very/'  he  replied;  "no.    I  don't  look  tired?" 

"No,"  she  said  bitterly,  but  concealing  her  feelings;  she 
wanted  to  see  how  thoroughly  and  deliberately  he  would  lie. 
"But  I  thought  maybe  you  might  have.  Did  you  stop  to  look 
at  the  water  tonight  ?" 

"Yes,"  he  replied  smoothly.  "It's  very  lovely  over  there.  I 
never  get  tired  of  it.  The  sun  on  the  leaves  these  days  now  that 
they  are  turning  yellow  is  so  beautiful.  They  look  a  little  like 
stained  glass  at  certain  angles." 

Her  first  impulse  after  hearing  this  was  to  exclaim,  "Why  do 
you  lie  to  me,  Eugene?"  for  her  temper  was  fiery,  almost  un- 
controllable at  times ;  but  she  restrained  herself.  She  wanted  to 
find  out  more — how  she  did  not  know,  but  time,  if  she  could 
only  wait  a  little,  would  help  her.  Eugene  went  to  the  bath, 
congratulating  himself  on  the  ease  of  his  escape — the  comfortable 
fact  that  he  was  not  catechised  very  much;  but  in  this  tempo- 
rary feeling  of  satisfaction  he  forgot  the  scraps  of  paper  in  his 


THE  "GENIUS'  371 

vest  pocket — though  not  for  long.  He  hung  his  coat  and  vest 
on  a  hook  and  started  into  the  bedroom  to  get  himself  a  fresh 
collar  and  tie.  While  he  was  in  there  Angela  passed  the  bath- 
room door.  She  was  always  interested  in  Eugene's  clothes, 
how  they  were  wearing,  but  tonight  there  were  other  thoughts 
in  her  mind.  Hastily  and  by  intuition  she  went  through  his 
pockets,  finding  the  torn  scraps,  then  for  excuse  took  his  coat 
and  vest  down  to  clean  certain  spots.  At  the  same  moment 
Eugene  thought  of  his  letter.  He  came  hurrying  out  to  get  it, 
or  the  pieces,  rather,  but  Angela  already  had  them  and  was  look- 
ing at  them  curiously. 

"What  was  that?"  she  asked,  all  her  suspicious  nature  on 
the  qui  vive  for  additional  proof.  Why  should  he  keep  the  torn 
fragments  of  a  letter  in  his  pocket?  For  days  she  had  had  a 
psychic  sense  of  something  impending.  Everything  about  him 
seemed  strangely  to  call  for  investigation.  Now  it  was  all  com- 
ing out. 

"Nothing,"  he  said  nervously.  "A  memorandum.  Throw  it 
in  the  paper  box." 

Angela  noted  the  peculiarity  of  his  voice  and  manner.  She 
was  taken  by  the  guilty  expression  of  his  eyes.  Something  was 
wrong.  It  concerned  these  scraps  of  paper.  Maybe  it  was  in 
these  she  would  be  able  to  read  the  riddle  of  his  conduct.  The 
woman's  name  might  be  in  here.  Like  a  flash  it  came  to  her 
that  she  might  piece  these  scraps  together,  but  there  was  another 
thought  equally  swift  which  urged  her  to  pretend  indifference. 
That  might  help  her.  Pretend  now  and  she  would  know  more 
later.  She  threw  them  in  the  paper  box,  thinking  to  piece  them 
together  at  her  leisure.  Eugene  noted  her  hesitation,  her  suspi- 
cion. He  was  afraid  she  would  do  something,  what  he  could 
not  guess.  He  breathed  more  easily  when  the  papers  fluttered 
into  the  practically  empty  box,  but  he  was  nervous.  If  they 
were  only  burned!  He  did  not  think  she  would  attempt  to  put 
them  together,  but  he  was  afraid.  He  would  have  given  any- 
thing if  his  sense  of  romance  had  not  led  him  into  this  trap. 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

ANGELA  was  quick  to  act  upon  her  thought.  No  sooner 
had  Eugene  entered  the  bath  than  she  gathered  up  the 
pieces,  threw  other  bits  of  paper  like  them  in  their  place  and 
tried  quickly  to  piece  them  together  on  the  ironing  board  where 
she  was.  It  was  not  difficult;  the  scraps  were  not  small.  On 
one  triangular  bit  were  the  words,  "Oh,  Genie !"  with  a  colon 
after  it;  on  another  the  words,  "The  bridge,"  and  on  another 
"Roses."  There  was  no  doubt  in  her  mind  from  this  prelim- 
inary survey  that  this  was  a  love  note,  and  every  nerve  in  her 
body  tingled  to  the  terrible  import  of  it.  Could  it  really  be 
true?  Could  Eugene  have  found  someone  else?  Was  this  the 
cause  of  his  coolness  and  his  hypocritical  pretence  of  affection? 
and  of  his  not  wanting  her  to  come  to  him?  Oh,  God!  Would 
her  sufferings  never  cease !  She  hurried  into  the  front  room,  her 
face  white,  her  hand  clenching  the  tell-tale  bits,  and  there  set  to 
work  to  complete  her  task.  It  did  not  take  her  long.  In  four 
minutes  it  was  all  together,  and  then  she  saw  it  all.  A  love 
note !  From  some  demon  of  a  woman.  No  doubt  of  it !  Some 
mysterious  woman  in  the  background.  "Ashes  of  Roses !"  Now 
God  curse  her  for  a  siren,  a  love  thief,  a  hypnotizing  snake, 
fascinating  men  with  her  evil  eyes.  And  Eugene!  The  dog! 
The  scoundrel !  The  vile  coward !  The  traitor !  Was  there  no 
decency,  no  morality,  no  kindness,  no  gratitude  in  his  soul? 
After  all  her  patience,  all  her  suffering,  all  her  loneliness,  her 
poverty.  To  treat  her  like  this!  Writing  that  he  was  sick 
and  lonely  and  unable  to  have  her  with  him,  and  at  the  same 
time  running  around  with  a  strange  woman.  "Ashes  of  Roses!" 
Oh,  curses,  curses,  curses  on  her  harlot's  heart  and  brain!  Might 
God  strike  her  dead  for  her  cynical,  brutal  seizing  upon  that 
sacred  possession  which  belonged  to  another.  She  wrung  her 
hands  desperately. 

Angela  was  fairly  beside  herself.  Through  her  dainty  little 
head  ran  a  foaming  torrent  of  rage,  hate,  envy,  sorrow,  self- 
commiseration,  brutal  desire  for  revenge.  If  she  could  only  get 
at  this  woman!  If  she  could  only  denounce  Eugene  now  to  his 
face !  If  she  could  only  find  them  together  and  kill  them !  How 
she  would  like  to  strike  her  on  the  mouth !  How  tear  her  hair 
and  her  eyes  out !  Something  of  the  forest  cat's  cruel  rage  shone 
in  her  gleaming  eyes  as  she  thought  of  her,  for  if  she  could 

372 


THE    "GENIUS'  373 

have  had  Carlotta  there  alone  she  would  have  tortured  her  with 
hot  irons,  torn  her  tongue  and  teeth  from  their  roots,  beaten  her 
into  insensibility  and  an  unrecognizable  mass.  She  was  a  real 
tigress  now,  her  eyes  gleaming,  her  red  lips  wet.  She  would 
kill  her!  kill  her!!  kill  her!!!  As  God  was  judge,  she  would 
kill  her  if  she  could  find  her,  and  Eugene  and  herself.  Yes,  yes, 
she  would.  Better  death  than  this  agony  of  suffering.  Better 
a  thousand  times  to  be  dead  with  this  beast  of  a  woman  dead 
beside  her  and  Eugene  than  to  suffer  this  way.  She  didn't  de- 
serve it.  Why  did  God  torture  her  so?  Why  was  she  made 
to  bleed  at  every  step  by  this  her  sacrificial  love?  Had  she 
not  been  a  good  wife?  Had  she  not  laid  every  tribute  of  tender- 
ness, patience,  self-abnegation,  self-sacrifice  and  virtue  on  the 
altar  of  love?  What  more  could  God  ask?  What  more  could 
man  want?  Had  she  not  waited  on  Eugene  in  sickness  and 
health?  She  had  gone  without  clothes,  gone  without  friends, 
hidden  herself  away  in  Blackwood  the  seven  months  while  he 
was  here  frittering  away  his  health  and  time  in  love  and  im- 
morality, and  what  was  her  reward?  In  Chicago,  in  Tennessee, 
in  Mississippi,  had  she  not  waited  on  him,  sat  up  with  him  of 
nights,  walked  the  floor  with  him  when  he  was  nervous,  consoled 
him  in  his  fear  of  poverty  and  failure,  and  here  she  was  now, 
after  seven  long  months  of  patient  waiting  and  watching — eat- 
ing her  lonely  heart  out — forsaken.  Oh,  the  inconceivable  in- 
humanity of  the  human  heart!  To  think  anybody  could  be  so 
vile,  so  low,  so  unkind,  so  cruel!  To  think  that  Eugene  with 
his  black  eyes,  his  soft  hair,  his  smiling  face,  could  be  so  treach- 
erous, so  subtle,  so  dastardly!  Could  he  really  be  as  mean  as 
this  note  proved  him  to  be?  Could  he  be  as  brutal,  as  selfish? 
Was  she  awake  or  asleep?  Was  this  a  dream?  Ah,  God!  no, 
no  it  was  not  a  dream.  It  was  a  cold,  bitter,  agonizing  reality. 
And  the  cause  of  all  her  suffering  was  there  in  the  bathroom 
now  shaving  himself. 

For  one  moment  she  thought  she  would  go  in  and  strike  him 
where  he  stood.  She  thought  she  could  tear  his  heart  out,  cut 
him  up,  but  then  suddenly  the  picture  of  him  bleeding  and  dead 
came  to  her  and  she  recoiled.  No,  no,  she  could  not  do  that! 
Oh,  no,  not  Eugene — and  yet  and  yet 

"Oh,  God,  let  me  get  my  hands  on  that  woman!"  she  said 
to  herself.  "Let  me  get  my  hands  on  her.  I'll  kill  her,  I'll 
kill  her!  I'll  kill  her!" 

This  torrent  of  fury  and  self-pity  was  still  raging  in  her 
heart  when  the  bathroom  knob  clicked  and  Eugene  came  out. 
He  was  in  his  undershirt,  trousers  and  shoes,  looking  for  a  clean 


374  THE    "GENIUS" 

white  shirt.  He  was  very  nervous  over  the  note  which  had  been 
thrown  in  scraps  into  the  box,  but  looking  in  the  kitchen  and 
seeing  the  pieces  still  there  he  was  slightly  reassured.  Angela 
was  not  there;  he  could  come  back  and  get  them  when  he  found 
out  where  she  was.  He  went  on  into  the  bedroom,  looking  into 
the  front  room  as  he  did  so.  She  appeared  to  be  at  the  window 
waiting  for  him.  After  all,  she  was  probably  not  as  suspicious 
as  he  thought.  It  was  his  own  imagination.  He  was  too  nerv- 
ous and  sensitive.  Well,  he  would  get  those  pieces  now  if  he 
could  and  throw  them  out  of  the  window.  Angela  should  not 
have  a  chance  to  examine  them  if  she  wanted  to.  He  slipped 
out  into  the  kitchen,  made  a  quick  grab  for  the  little  heap,  and 
sent  the  pieces  flying.  Then  he  felt  much  better.  He  would 
never  bring  another  letter  home  from  anybody,  that  was  a  cer- 
tainty. Fate  was  too  much  against  him. 

Angela  came  out  after  a  bit,  for  the  click  of  the  bathroom 
knob  had  sobered  her  a  little.  Her  rage  was  high,  her  pulse 
abnormal,  her  whole  being  shaken  to  its  roots,  but  still  she  real- 
ized that  she  must  have  time  to  think.  She  must  see  who  this 
woman  was  first.  She  must  have  time  to  find  her.  Eugene 
mustn't  know.  Where  was  she  now?  Where  was  this  bridge? 
Where  did  they  meet?  Where  did  she  live?  She  wondered  for 
the  moment  why  she  couldn't  think  it  all  out,  why  it  didn't  come 
to  her  in  a  flash,  a  revelation.  If  she  could  only  know! 

In  a  few  minutes  Eugene  came  in,  clean-shaven,  smiling,  his 
equanimity  and  peace  of  mind  fairly  well  restored.  The  letter 
was  gone.  Angela  could  never  know.  She  might  suspect,  but 
this  possible  burst  of  jealousy  had  been  nipped  in  the  bud.  He 
came  over  toward  her  to  put  his  arm  round  her,  but  she  slipped 
away  from  him,  pretending  to  need  the  sugar.  He  let  this  ef- 
fort at  love  making  go — the  will  for  the  deed,  and  sat  down  at 
the  snow-white  little  table,  set  with  tempting  dishes  and  waited 
to  be  served.  The  day  had  been  very  pleasant,  being  early  in 
October,  and  he  was  pleased  to  see  a  last  lingering  ray  of  light 
falling  on  some  red  and  yellow  leaves.  This  yard  was  very 
beautiful.  This  little  flat,  for  all  their  poverty,  very  charming. 
Angela  was  neat  and  trim  in  a  dainty  house  dress  of  mingled 
brown  and  green.  A  dark  blue  studio  apron  shielded  her  bosom 
and  skirt.  She  was  very  pale  and  distraught-looking,  but  Eu- 
gene for  the  time  was  almost  unconscious  of  it — he  was  so 
relieved. 

"Are  you  very  tired,  Angela?"  he  finally  asked  sympatheti- 
cally. 

"Yes,  I'm  not  feeling  so  well  today,"  she  replied. 


THE    "GENIUS'  375 

"What  have  you  been  doing,  ironing?" 
"Oh,  yes,  and  cleaning.     I  worked  on  the  cupboard." 
"You  oughtn't  to  try  to  do  so  much,"  he  said   cheerfully. 
"You're  not  strong  enough.     You  think  you're  a  little  horse, 
but  you  are  only  a  colt.     Better  go  slow,  hadn't  you?" 

"I  will  after  I  get  everything  straightened  out  to  suit  me," 
she  replied. 

She  was  having  the  struggle  of  her  life  to  conceal  her  real 
feelings.  Never  at  any  time  had  she  undergone  such  an  ordeal 
as  this.  Once  in  the  studio,  when  she  discovered  those  two 
letters,  she  thought  she  was  suffering — but  that,  what  was  that 
to  this?  What  were  her  suspicions  concerning  Frieda?  What 
were  the  lonely  longings  at  home,  her  grieving  and  worrying 
over  his  illness?  Nothing,  nothing!  Now  he  was  actually 
faithless  to  her.  Now  she  had  the  evidence.  This  woman  was 
here.  She  was  somewhere  in  the  immediate  background.  After 
these  years  of  marriage  and  close  companionship  he  was  deceiv- 
ing her.  It  was  possible  that  he  had  been  with  this  woman 
today,  yesterday,  the  day  before.  The  letter  was  not  dated. 
Could  it  be  that  she  was  related  to  Mrs.  Hibberdell?  Eugene 
had  said  that  there  was  a  married  daughter,  but  never  that  she 
was  there.  If  she  was  there,  why  should  he  have  moved?  He 
wouldn't  have.  Was  it  the  wife  of  the  man  he  was  last  living- 
with  ?  No ;  she  was  too  homely.  Angela  had  seen  her.  Eugene 
would  never  associate  with  her.  If  she  could  only  know! 
"Ashes  of  Roses!"  The  world  went  red  before  her  eyes.  There 
was  no  use  bursting  into  a  storm  now,  though.  If  she  could 
only  be  calm  it  would  be  better.  If  she  only  had  someone  to 
talk  to — if  there  were  a  minister  or  a  bosom  friend !  She  might 
go  to  a  detective  agency.  They  might  help  her.  A  detective 
could  trace  this  woman  and  Eugene.  Did  she  want  to  do  this? 
It  cost  money.  They  were  very  poor  now.  Paugh!  Why 
should  she  worry  about  their  poverty,  mending  her  dresses,  go- 
ing without  hats,  going  without  decent  shoes,  and  he  wasting  his 
time  and  being  upon  some  shameless  strumpet!  If  he  had 
money,  he  would  spend  it  on  her.  Still,  he  had  handed  her  al- 
most all  the  money  he  had  brought  East  with  him  intact.  How 
was  that? 

All  the  time  Eugene  was  sitting  opposite  her  eating  with  fair 
heartiness.  If  the  trouble  about  the  letter  had  not  come  out  so 
favorably  he  would  have  been  without  appetite,  but  now  he  felt 
at  ease.  Angela  said  she  was  not  hungry  and  could  not  eat. 
She  passed  him  the  bread,  the  butter,  the  hashed  brown  potatoes,, 
the  tea,  and  he  ate  cheerfully. 


376  THE   "GENIUS" 

"I  think  I  am  going  to  try  and  get  out  of  that  shop  over 
there,"  he  volunteered  affably. 

"Why?"  asked  Angela  mechanically. 

"I'm  tired  of  it.  The  men  are  not  so  interesting  to  me  now. 
I'm  tired  of  them.  I  think  Mr.  Haverford  will  transfer  me  if 
I  write  to  him.  He  said  he  would.  I'd  rather  be  outside  with 
some  section  gang  if  I  could.  It's  going  to  be  very  dreary  in  the 
shop  when  they  close  it  up." 

"Well,  if  you're  tired  you'd  better,"  replied  Angela.  "Your 
mind  needs  diversion,  I  know  that.  Why  don't  you  write  to  Mr. 
Haverford?" 

"I  will,"  he  said,  but  he  did  not  immediately.  He  went  into 
the  front  room  and  lit  the  gas  eventually,  reading  a  paper,  then 
a  book,  then  yawning  wearily.  Angela  came  in  after  a  time  and 
sat  down  pale  and  tired.  She  went  and  secured  a  little  work- 
basket  in  which  were  socks  undarned  and  other  odds  and  ends 
and  began  on  those,  but  she  revolted  at  the  thought  of  doing 
anything  for  him  and  put  them  up.  She  got  out  a  skirt  of  hers 
which  she  was  making.  Eugene  watched  her  a  little  while  lazily, 
his  artistic  eye  measuring  the  various  dimensions  of  her  features. 
She  had  a  well-balanced  face,  he  finally  concluded.  He  noted 
the  effect  of  the  light  on  her  hair — the  peculiar  hue  it  gave  it — 
and  wondered  if  he  could  get  that  in  oil.  Night  scenes  were 
harder  than  those  of  full  daylight.  Shadows  were  so  very 
treacherous.  He  got  up  finally. 

"Well,  I'm  going  to  turn  in,"  he  said.  "I'm  tired.  I  have 
to  get  up  at  six.  Oh,  dear,  this  darn  day  labor  business  gives  me 
a  pain.  I  wish  it  were  over." 

Angela  did  not  trust  herself  to  speak.  She  was  so  full  of  pain 
and  despair  that  she  thought  if  she  spoke  she  would  cry.  He 
went  out,  saying:  "Coming  soon?"  She  nodded  her  head. 
When  he  was  gone  the  storm  burst  and  she  broke  into  a  blinding 
flood  of  tears.  They  were  not  only  tears  of  sorrow,  but  of  rage 
and  helplessness.  She  went  out  on  a  little  balcony  which  was 
there  and  cried  alone,  the  night  lights  shining  wistfully  about. 
After  the  first  storm  she  began  to  harden  and  dry  up  again,  for 
helpless  tears  were  foreign  to  her  in  a  rage.  She  dried  her  eyes 
and  became  white-faced  and  desperate  as  before. 

The  dog,  the  scoundrel,  the  brute,  the  hound!  she  thought. 
How  could  she  ever  have  loved  him?  How  could  she  love  him 
now?  Oh,  the  horror  of  life,  its  injustice,  its  cruelty,  its  shame! 
That  she  should  be  dragged  through  the  mire  with  a  man  like 
this.  The  pity  of  it!  The  shame!  If  this  was  art,  death  take 
it!  And  yet  hate  him  as  she  might — hate  this  hellish  man-trap 


THE    "GENIUS"  377 

who  signed  herself  "Ashes  of  Roses'* — she  loved  him,  too.  She 
could  not  help  it.  She  knew  she  loved  him.  Oh,  to  be  crossed 
by  two  fevers  like  this!  Why  might  she  not  die?  Why  not  die, 
right  now? 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

THE  hells  of  love  are  bitter  and  complete.  There  were  days 
after  that  when  she  watched  him,  followed  him  down  the 
pleasant  lane  from  the  house  to  the  water's  edge,  slipping  out  un- 
ceremoniously after  he  had  gone  not  more  than  eight  hundred  feet. 
She  watched  the  bridge  at  Riverwood  at  one  and  six,  expecting 
that  Eugene  and  his  paramour  might  meet  there.  It  just  hap- 
pened that  Carlotta  was  compelled  to  leave  town  for  ten  days 
with  her  husband,  and  so  Eugene  was  safe.  On  two  occasions 
he  went  downtown — into  the  heart  of  the  great  city,  anxious  to 
get  a  breath  of  the  old  life  that  so  fascinated  him,  and  Angela 
followed  him  only  to  lose  track  of  him  quickly.  He  did  nothing 
evil,  however,  merely  walked,  wondering  what  Miriam  Finch 
and  Christina  Channing  and  Norma  Whitmore  were  doing 
these  days  and  what  they  were  thinking  of  him  in  his  long 
absence.  Of  all  the  people  he  had  known,  he  had  only  seen 
Norma  Whitmore  once  and  that  was  not  long  after  he  returned 
to  New  York.  He  had  given  her  a  garbled  explanation  of  his 
illness,  stated  that  he  was  going  to  work  now  and  proposed  to 
come  and  see  her.  He  did  his  best  to  avoid  observation,  however, 
for  he  dreaded  explaining  the  reason  of  his  non-productive  con- 
dition. Miriam  Finch  was  almost  glad  that  he  had  failed,  since 
he  had  treated  her  so  badly.  Christina  Channing  was  in  opera, 
as  he  quickly  discovered,  for  he  saw  her  name  blazoned  one  day 
the  following  November  in  the  newspapers.  She  was  a  star  of 
whose  talent  great  hopes  were  entertained,  and  was  interested 
almost  exclusively  in  her  career.  She  was  to  sing  in  "Boheme" 
and  "Rigoletto." 

Another  thing,  fortunate  for  Eugene  at  this  time,  was  that 
he  changed  his  work.  There  came  to  the  shop  one  day  an 
Irish  foreman,  Timothy  Deegan,  master  of  a  score  of  "guin- 
eas," as  he  called  the  Italian  day  laborers  who  worked  for  him, 
who  took  Eugene's  fancy  greatly.  He  was  of  medium  height, 
thick  of  body  and  neck,  with  a  cheerful,  healthy  red  face,  a 
keen,  twinkling  gray  eye,  and  stiff,  closely  cropped  gray  hair 
and  mustache.  He  had  come  to  lay  the  foundation  for  a  small 
dynamo  in  the  engine  room  at  Speonk,  which  was  to  supply  the 
plant  with  light  in  case  of  night  work,  and  a  car  of  his  had 
been  backed  in,  a  tool  car,  full  of  boards,  barrows,  mortar 

378 


• 


THE    "GENIUS"  379 

boards,  picks  and  shovels.  Eugene  was  amused  and  astonished 
at  his  insistent,  defiant  attitude  and  the  brisk  manner  in  which 
he  was  handing  out  orders  to  his  men. 

"Come,  Matt!  Come,  Jimmie!  Get  the  shovels  now!  Get 
the  picks!"  he  heard  him  shout.  "Bring  some  sand  here!  Bring 
some  stone!  Where's  the  cement  now?  Where's  the  cement? 
Jasus  Christ!  I  must  have  some  cement.  What  arre  ye  all 
doing?  Hurry  now,  hurry!  Bring  the  cement." 

"Well,  he  knows  how  to  give  orders,"  commented  Eugene  to 
Big  John,  who  was  standing  near.  "He  certainly  does,"  replied 
the  latter. 

To  himself  Eugene  observed,  hearing  only  the  calls  at  first, 
"the  Irish  brute."  Later  he  discovered  a  subtle  twinkle  in 
Deegan's  eyes  as  he  stood  brazenly  in  the  door,  looking  defiantly 
about.  There  was  no  brutality  in  it,  only  self-confidence  and  a 
hearty  Irish  insistence  on  the  necessity  of  the  hour. 

"Well,  you're  a  dandy!"  commented  Eugene  boldly  after  a 
time,  and  laughed. 

"Ha!  ha!  ha!"  mocked  Deegan  in  return.  "If  you  had  to 
work  as  harred  as  these  men  you  wouldn't  laugh." 

"I'm  not  laughing  at  them.  I'm  laughing  at  you,"  explained 
Eugene. 

"Laugh,"  said  Deegan.  "Shure  you're  as  funny  to  me  as  I 
am  to  you." 

Eugene  laughed  again.  The  Irishman  agreed  with  himself 
that  there  was  humor  in  it.  He  laughed  too.  Eugene  patted 
his  big  rough  shoulder  with  his  hands  and  they  were  friends 
immediately.  It  did  not  take  Deegan  long  to  find  out  from 
Big  John  why  he  was  there  and  what  he  was  doing. 

"An  arrtist!"  he  commented.  "Shewer  he'd  better  be  outside 
than  in.  The  loikes  of  him  packin'  shavin's  and  him  laughin' 
at  me." 

Big  John  smiled. 

"I  believe  he  w^ants  to  get  outside,"  he  said. 

"Why  don't  he  come  with  me,  then?  He'd  have  a  foine 
time  workin'  with  the  guineas.  Shewer  'twould  make  a  man  av 
him — a  few  months  of  that" — and  he  pointed  to  Angelo  Espo- 
sito  shoveling  clay. 

Big  John  thought  this  worth  reporting  to  Eugene.  He  did 
not  think  that  he  wanted  to  work  with  the  guineas,  but  he 
might  like  to  be  with  Deegan.  Eugene  saw  his  opportunity. 
He  liked  Deegan. 

"Would  you  like  to  have  an  artist  who's  looking  for  health 
come  and  work  for  you,  Deegan?"  Eugene  asked  genially.  He 


38o  THE    "GENIUS'5 

thought  Deegan  might  refuse,  but  it  didn't  matter.  It  was 
worth  the  trial. 

"Shewer!"  replied  the  latter. 

"Will  I  have  to  work  with  the  Italians?" 

"There'll  be  plenty  av  work  for  ye  to  do  without  ever  layin' 
yer  hand  to  pick  or  shovel  unless  ye  want  to.  Shewer  that's 
no  work  fer  a  white  man  to  do." 

"And  what  do  you  call  them,  Deegan?    Aren't  they  white?" 

"Shewer  they're  naat." 

"What  are  they,  then?    They're  not  black." 

"Nagurs,  of  coorse." 

"But  they're  not  negroes." 

"Will,  begad,  they're  naat  white.  Any  man  kin  tell  that  be 
lookin'  at  thim." 

Eugene  smiled.  He  understood  at  once  the  solid  Irish  tem- 
perament which  could  draw  this  hearty  conclusion.  There  was 
no  malice  in  it.  Deegan  did  not  underestimate  these  Italians. 
He  liked  his  men,  but  they  weren't  white.  He  didn't  know  what 
they  were  exactly,  but  they  weren't  white.  He  was  standing 
over  them  a  moment  later  shouting,  "Up  with  it!  Up  with  it! 
Down  with  it!  Down  with  it!"  as  though  his  whole  soul  were 
intent  on  driving  the  last  scrap  of  strength  out  of  these  poor 
underlings,  when  as  a  matter  of  fact  they  were  not  working 
very  hard  at  all.  His  glance  was  roving  about  in  a  general  way 
as  he  yelled  and  they  paid  little  attention  to  him.  Once  in  a 
while  he  would  interpolate  a  "Come,  Matt!"  in  a  softer  key — a 
key  so  soft  that  it  was  entirely  out  of  keeping  with  his  other 
voice.  Eugene  saw  it  all  clearly.  He  understood  Deegan. 

"I  think  I'll  get  Mr.  Haverford  to  transfer  me  to  you,  if 
you'll  let  me  come,"  he  said  at  the  close  of  the  day  when  Dee- 
gan was  taking  off  his  overalls  and  the  "Eyetalians,"  as  he 
called  them,  were  putting  the  things  back  in  the  car. 

"Shewer!"  said  Deegan,  impressed  by  the  great  name  of 
Haverford.  If  Eugene  could  accomplish  that  through  such  a 
far-off,  wondrous  personality,  he  must  be  a  remarkable  man 
himself.  "Come  along.  I'll  be  glad  to  have  ye.  Ye  can  just 
make  out  the  O.  K.  blanks  and  the  repoarts  and  watch  over  the 
min  sich  times  as  I'll  naat  be  there  and — well — all  told,  ye'll 
have  enough  to  keep  ye  busy." 

Eugene  smiled.  This  was  a  pleasant  prospect.  Big  John  had 
told  him  during  the  morning  that  Deegan  went  up  and  down 
the  road  from  Peekskill  on  the  main  line,  Chatham  on  the  Mid- 
land Division,  and  Mt.  Kisco  on  a  third  branch  to  New  York 
City.  He  built  wells,  culverts,  coal  bins,  building  piers — small 


THE    '"GENIUS'  381 

brick  buildings — anything  and  everything,  in  short,  whfch  a 
capable  foreman-mason  ought  to  be  able  to  build,  and  in  addi- 
tion he  was  fairly  content  and  happy  in  his  task.  Eugene  could 
see  it.  The  atmosphere  of  the  man  was  wholesome.  He  was 
like  a  tonic — a  revivifying  dynamo  to  this  sickly  overwrought 
sentimentalist. 

That  night  he  went  home  to  Angela  full  of  the  humor  and 
romance  of  his  new  situation.  He  liked  the  idea  of  it.  He 
wanted  to  tell  her  about  Deegan — to  make  her  laugh.  He  was 
destined  unfortunately  to  another  kind  of  reception. 

For  Angela,  by  this  time,  had  endured  the  agony  of  her  dis- 
covery to  the  breaking  point.  She  had  listened  to  his  pretences, 
knowing  them  to  be  lies,  until  she  could  endure  it  no  longer. 
In  following  him  she  had  discovered  nothing,  and  the  change  in 
his  work  would  make  the  chase  more  difficult.  It  was  scarcely 
possible  for  anyone  to  follow  him,  for  he  himself  did  not  know 
where  he  would  be  from  day  to  day.  He  would  be  here,  there, 
and  everywhere.  His  sense  of  security  as  well  as  of  his  un- 
fairness made  him  sensitive  about  being  nice  in  the  unimportant 
things.  When  he  thought  at  all  he  was  ashamed  of  what  he 
was  doing — thoroughly  ashamed.  Like  the  drunkard  he  ap- 
peared to  be  mastered  by  his  weakness,  and  the  psychology  of  his 
attitude  is  so  best  interpreted.  He  caressed  her  sympathetically, 
for  he  thought  from  her  drawn,  weary  look  that  she  was  verg- 
ing on  some  illness.  She  appeared  to  him  to  be  suffering  from 
worry  for  him,  overwork,  or  approaching  malady. 

But  Eugene  in  spite  of  his  unfaithfulness  did  sympathize  with 
Angela  greatly.  He  appreciated  her  good  qualities — her  truth- 
fulness, economy,  devotion  and  self-sacrifice  in  all  things  which 
related  to  him.  He  was  sorry  that  his  own  yearning  for  free- 
dom crossed  with  her  desire  for  simple-minded  devotion  on  his 
part.  He  could  not  love  her  as  she  wanted  him  to,  that  he  knew, 
and  yet  he  was  at  times  sorry  for  it,  very.  He  would  look  at 
her  when  she  was  not  looking  at  him,  admiring  her  industry,  her 
patience,  her  pretty  figure,  her  geniality  in  the  face  of  many  dif- 
ficulties, and  wish  that  she  could  have  had  a  better  fate  than  to 
have  met  and  married  him. 

Because  of  these  feelings  on  his  part  for  her  he  could  not  bear 
to  see  her  suffer.  When  she  appeared  to  be  ill  he  could  not  help 
drawing  near  to  her,  wanting  to  know  how  she  was,  endeavoring 
to  make  her  feel  better  by  those  sympathetic,  emotional  demon- 
strations which  he  knew  meant  so  much  to  her.  On  this  par- 
ticular evening,  noting  the  still  drawn  agony  of  her  face,  he 
was  moved  to  insist.  "What's  the  matter  with  you,  Angelface, 


382  THE    "GENIUS" 

these  days  ?  You  look  so  tired.  You're  not  right.  What's  trou- 
bling you?" 

"Oh,  nothing,"  replied  Angela  wearily. 

"But  I  know  there  is,"  he  replied.  "You  can't  be  feeling 
well.  What's  ailing  you?  You're  not  like  yourself  at  all. 
Won't  you  tell  me,  sweet?  What's  the  trouble?" 

He  was  thinking  because  Angela  said  nothing  that  it  must  be 
a  real  physical  illness.  Any  emotional  complaint  vented  itself 
quickly. 

"Why  should  you  care?"  she  asked  cautiously,  breaking  her 
self-imposed  vow  of  silence.  She  \vas  thinking  that  Eugene  and 
this  woman,  whoever  she  was,  were  conspiring  to  defeat  her 
and  that  they  were  succeeding.  Her  voice  had  changed  from 
one  of  weary  resignation  to  subtle  semi-concealed  complaint  and 
offense,  and  Eugene  noted  it.  Before  she  could  add  any  more,  he 
had  observed,  "Why  shouldn't  I?  Why,  how  you  talk!  What's 
the  matter  now?" 

Angela  really  did  not  intend  to  go  on.  Her  query  was 
dragged  out  of  her  by  his  obvious  sympathy.  He  was  sorry  for 
her  in  some  general  way.  It  made  her  pain  and  wrath  all  the 
greater.  And  his  additional  inquiry  irritated  her  the  more. 

"Why  should  you?"  she  asked  weepingly.  "You  don't  want 
me.  You  don't  like  me.  You  pretend  sympathy  when  I  look 
a  little  bad,  but  that's  all.  But  you  don't  care  for  me.  If  you 
could  get  rid  of  me,  you  would.  That  is  so  plain." 

"Why,  what  are  you  talking  about?"  he  asked,  astonished. 
Had  she  found  out  anything?  Was  the  incident  of  the  scraps 
of  paper  really  closed?  Had  anybody  been  telling  her  anything 
about  Carlotta?  Instantly  he  was  all  at  sea.  Still  he  had  to 
pretend. 

"You  know  I  care,"  he  said.    "How  can  you  say  that?" 

"You  don't.  You  know  you  don't!"  she  flared  up  suddenly. 
"Why  do  you  lie?  You  don't  care.  Don't  touch  me.  Don't 
come  near  me.  I'm  sick  of  your  hypocritical  pretences!  Oh!" 
And  she  straightened  up  with  her  finger  nails  cutting  into  her 
palms. 

Eugene  at  the  first  expression  of  disbelief  on  her  part  had  laid 
his  hand  soothingly  on  her  arm.  That  was  why  she  had  jumped 
away  from  him.  Now  he  drew  back,  nonplussed,  nervous,  a 
little  defiant.  It  was  easier  to  combat  rage  than  sorrow;  but 
he  did  not  want  to  do  either. 

"What's  the  matter  with  you?"  he  asked,  assuming  a  look  of 
bewildered  innocence.  "What  have  I  done  now?" 

"What  haven't  you  done,  you'd  better  ask.     You  dog!     You 


THE  ''GENIUS*'  383 

coward !"  flared  Angela.  "Leaving  me  to  stay  out  in  Wisconsin 
while  you  go  running  around  with  a  shameless  woman.  Don't 
deny  it!  Don't  dare  to  deny  it!" — this  apropos  of  a  protesting 
movement  on  the  part  of  Eugene's  head — "I  know  all !  I  know 
more  than  I  want  to  know.  I  know  how  you've  been  acting. 
I  know  what  you've  been  doing.  I  know  how  you've  been  lying 
to  me.  You've  been  running  around  with  a  low,  vile  wretch  of 
a  woman  while  I  have  been  staying  out  in  Blackwood  eating 
my  heart  out,  that's  what  you've  been  doing.  Dear  Angela! 
Dear  Angelf ace !  Dear  Madonna  Doloroso !  Ha !  What  have 
you  been  calling  her,  you  lying,  hypocritical  coward!  What 
names  have  you  for  her,  Hypocrite!  Brute!  Liar!  I  know 
what  you've  been  doing.  Oh,  how  well  I  know!  Why  was  I 
ever  born? — oh,  why,  why?" 

Her  voice  trailed  off  in  a  wail  of  agony.  Eugene  stood  there 
astonished  to  the  point  of  inefficiency.  He  could  not  think  of 
a  single  thing  to  do  or  say.  He  had  no  idea  upon  what  evidence 
she  based  her  complaint.  He  fancied  that  it  must  be  much 
more  than  had  been  contained  in  that  little  note  which  he  had 
torn  up.  She  had  not  seen  that — of  that  he  was  reasonably  sure 
— or  was  he?  Could  she  have  taken  it  out  of  the  box  while  he 
was  in  the  bath  and  then  put  it  back  again?  This  sounded  like 
it.  She  had  looked  very  bad  that  night.  How  much  did  she 
know  ?  Where  had  she  secured  this  information  ?  Mrs.  Hibber- 
dell?  Carlotta?  No!  Had  she  seen  her?  Where?  When? 

"You're  talking  through  your  hat,"  he  said  aimlessly  and 
largely  in  order  to  get  time.  "You're  crazy!  What's  got  into 
you,  anyhow  ?  I  haven't  been  doing  anything  of  the  sort." 

"Oh,  haven't  you!"  she  sneered.  "You  haven't  been  meeting 
her  at  bridges  and  road  houses  and  street  cars,  have  you?  You 
liar!  You  haven't  been  calling  her  'Ashes  of  Roses'  and  'River 
Nymph*  and  'Angel  Girl.'  "  Angela  was  making  up  names  and 
places  out  of  her  own  mind.  "I  suppose  you  used  some  of  the 
pet  names  on  her  that  you  gave  to  Christina  Channing,  didn't 
you?  She'd  like  those,  the  vile  strumpet!  And  you,  you  dog, 
pretending  to  me — pretending  sympathy,  pretending  loneliness, 
pretending  sorrow  that  I  couldn't  be  here!  A  lot  you  cared 
what  I  was  doing  or  thinking  or  suffering.  Oh,  I  hate  you,  you 
horrible  coward!  I  hate  her!  I  hope  something  terrible  hap- 
pens to  you.  If  I  could  get  at  her  now  I  would  kill  her  and 
you  both — and  myself.  I  would!  I  wish  I  could  die!  I  wish 
I  could  die!" 

Eugene  was  beginning  to  get  the  measure  of  his  iniquity  as 
Angela  interpreted  it.  He  could  see  now  how  cruelly  he  had 


384  THE    "GENIUS" 

hurt  her.  He  could  see  now  how  vile  what  he  was  doing  looked 
in  her  eyes.  It  was  bad  business — running  with  other  women — 
no  doubt  of  it.  It  always  ended  in  something  like  this — a  ter- 
rible storm  in  which  he  had  to  sit  by  and  hear  himself  called 
brutal  names  to  which  there  was  no  legitimate  answer.  He  had 
heard  of  this  in  connection  with  other  people,  but  he  had  never 
thought  it  would  come  to  him.  And  the  worst  of  it  was  that 
he  was  guilty  and  deserving  of  it.  No  doubt  of  that.  It  low- 
ered him  in  his  own  estimation.  It  lowered  her  in  his  and  her 
own  because  she  had  to  fight  this  way.  Why  did  he  do  it? 
Why  did  he  drag  her  into  such  a  situation?  It  was  breaking 
down  that  sense  of  pride  in  himself  which  was  the  only  sustain- 
ing power  a  man  had  before  the  gaze  of  the  world.  Why  did  he 
let  himself  into  these  situations?  Did  he  really  love  Carlotta? 
Did  he  want  pleasure  enough  to  endure  such  abuse  as  this? 
This  was  a  terrible  scene.  And  where  would  it  end?  His 
nerves  were  tingling,  his  brain  fairly  aching.  If  he  could  only 
conquer  this  desire  for  another  type  and  be  faithful,  and  yet 
how  dreadful  that  seemed!  To  confine  himself  in  all  his 
thoughts  to  just  Angela!  It  was  not  possible.  He  thought  of 
these  things,  standing  there  enduring  the  brunt  of  this  storm. 
It  was  a  terrible  ordeal,  but  it  was  not  wholly  reformatory  even 
at  that. 

"What's  the  use  of  your  carrying  on  like  that,  Angela?"  he 
said  grimly,  after  he  had  listened  to  all  this.  "It  isn't  as  bad 
as  you  think.  I'm  not  a  liar,  and  I'm  not  a  dog!  You  must 
have  pieced  that  note  I  threw  in  the  paper  box  together  and  read 
it.  When  did  you  do  it?" 

He  was  curious  about  that  and  about  how  much  she  knew. 
What  were  her  intentions  in  regard  to  him?  What  in  regard 
to  Carlotta?  What  would  she  do  next? 

"When  did  I  do  it?"  she  replied.  "When  did  I  do  it?  What 
has  that  to  do  with  it?  What  right  have  you  to  ask?  Where 
is  this  woman,  that's  what  I  want  to  know?  I  want  to  find 
her.  I  want  to  face  her.  I  want  to  tell  her  what  a  wretched 
beast  she  is.  I'll  show  her  how  to  come  and  steal  another 
woman's  husband.  I'll  kill  her.  I'll  kill  her  and  I'll  kill  you, 
too.  Do  you  hear?  I'll  kill  you!"  And  she  advanced  on  him 
defiantly,  blazingly. 

Eugene  was  astounded.  He  had  never  seen  such  rage  in  any 
woman.  It  was  wonderful,  fascinating,  something  like  a  great 
lightning-riven  storm.  Angela  was  capable  of  hurling  thunder- 
bolts of  wrath.  He  had  not  known  that.  It  raised  her  in  his 
estimation — made  her  really  more  attractive  than  she  would 


THE    "GENIUS"  385 

otherwise  have  been,  for  power,  however  displayed,  is  fascinat- 
ing. She  was  so  little,  so  grim,  so  determined!  It  was  in  its 
way  a  test  of  great  capability.  And  he  liked  her  for  it  even 
though  he  resented  her  abuse. 

"No,  no,  Angela,"  he  said  sympathetically  and  with  a  keen 
wish  to  alleviate  her  sorrow.  "You  would  not  do  anything  like 
that.  You  couldn't!" 

"I  will!     I  will!"  she  declared.    'Til  kill  her  and  you,  too!" 

And  then  having  reached  this  tremendous  height  she  sud- 
denly broke.  Eugene's  big,  sympathetic  understanding  was  after 
all  too  much  for  her.  His  brooding  patience  in  the  midst  of 
her  wrath,  his  innate  sorrow  for  what  he  could  not  or  would 
not  help  (it  was  written  all  over  his  face),  his  very  obvious 
presentation  of  the  fact  by  his  attitude  that  he  knew  that  she 
loved  him  in  spite  of  this,  was  too  much  for  her.  It  was  like 
beating  her  hands  against  a  stone.  She  might  kill  him  and  this 
woman,  whoever  she  was,  but  she  would  not  have  changed  his 
attitude  toward  her,  and  that  was  what  she  wanted.  A  great 
torrent  of  heart-breaking  sobs  broke  from  her,  shaking  her 
frame  like  a  reed.  She  threw  her  arms  and  head  upon  the 
kitchen  table,  falling  to  her  knees,  and  cried  and  cried.  Eugene 
stood  there  contemplating  the  wreck  he  had  made  of  her  dreams. 
Certainly  it  was  hell,  he  said  to  himseH;  certainly  it  was.  He 
was  a  liar,  as  she  said,  a  dog,  a  scoundrel.  Poor  little  Angela! 
Well,  the  damage  had  been  done.  What  could  he  do  now? 
Anything?  Certainly  not.  Not  a  thing.  She  was  broken — 
heart-broken.  There  was  no  earthly  remedy  for  that.  Priests 
might  shrive  for  broken  laws,  but  for  a  broken  heart  what  rem- 
edy was  there  ? 

"Angela!"  he  called  gently.  "Angela!  I'm  sorry!  Don't 
cry!  Angela!!  Don't  cry!" 

But  she  did  not  hear  him.  She  did  not  hear  anything.  Lost  in 
the  agony  of  her  situation,  she  could  only  sob  convulsively  until 
it  seemed  that  her  pretty  little  frame  would  break  to  pieces. 


CHAPTER   XXIX 

EUGENE'S  feelings  on  this  occasion  were  of  reasonable  dura- 
tion. It  is  always  possible  under  such  circumstances  to 
take  the  victim  of  our  brutalities  in  our  arms  and  utter  a  few 
sympathetic  or  repentant  words.  The  real  kindness  and  repent- 
ance which  consists  in  reformation  is  quite  another  matter.  One 
must  see  with  eyes  too  pure  to  behold  evil  to  do  that.  Eugene 
was  not  to  be  reformed  by  an  hour  or  many  hours  of  agony  on 
anyone's  part.  Angela  was  well  within  the  range  of  his  sym- 
pathetic interests.  He  suffered  with  her  keenly,  but  not  enough 
to  outrun  or  offset  his  own  keen  desire  for  what  he  considered 
his  spiritual  right  to  enjoy  beauty.  What  harm  did  it  do,  he 
would  have  asked  himself,  if  he  secretly  exchanged  affection- 
ate looks  and  feelings  with  Carlotta  or  any  other  woman  who 
fascinated  him  and  in  turn  wras  fascinated  by  him?  Could  an 
affinity  of  this  character  really  be  called  evil?  He  was  not 
giving  her  any  money  which  Angela  ought  to  have,  or  very 
little.  He  did  not  want  to  marry  her — and  she  really  did  not 
want  to  marry  him,  he  thought — there  was  no  chance  of  that, 
anyhow.  He  wanted  to  associate  with  her.  And  what  harm 
did  that  do  Angela?  None,  if  she  did  not  know.  Of  course, 
if  she  knew,  it  was  very  sad  for  her  and  for  him.  But,  if  the 
shoe  were  on  the  other  foot,  and  Angela  was  the  one  who  was 
acting  as  he  was  acting  now  he  would  not  care,  he  thought.  He 
forgot  to  add  that  if  he  did  not  care  it  would  be  because  he  was 
not  in  love,  and  Angela  was  in  love.  Such  reasoning  runs  in 
circles.  Only  it  is  not  reasoning.  It  is  sentimental  and  emo- 
tional anarchy.  There  is  no  will  toward  progress  in  it. 

When  Angela  recovered  from  her  first  burst  of  rage  and 
grief  it  was  only  to  continue  it  further,  though  not  in  quite  the 
same  vein.  There  can  only  be  one  superlative  in  any  field  of 
endeavor.  Beyond  that  may  be  mutterings  and  thunderings  or 
a  shining  after-glow,  but  no  second  superlative.  Angela  charged 
him  with  every  weakness  and  evil  tendency,  only  to  have  him 
look  at  her  in  a  solemn  way,  occasionally  saying:  "Oh,  no! 
You  know  I'm  not  as  bad  as  that,"  or  "Why  do  you  abuse  me 
in  that  way?  That  isn't  true,"  or  "Why  do  you  say  that?" 

"Because  it  is  so,  and  you  know  it's  so,"  Angela  would  de- 
clare. 

"Listen,  Angela,"  he  replied  once,  with  a  certain  amount  of 

386 


THE  "GENIUS''  387 

logic,  "there  is  no  use  in  brow-beating  me  in  this  way.  It 
doesn't  do  any  good  to  call  me  names.  You  want  me  to  love 
you,  don't  you?  That's  all  that  you  want.  You  don't  want 
anything  else.  Will  calling  me  names  make  me  do  it?  If  I 
can't  I  can't,  and  if  I  can  I  can.  How  will  fighting  help  that?" 

She  listened  to  him  pitifully,  for  she  knew  that  her  rage  was 
useless,  or  practically  so.  He  was  in  the  position  of  power. 
She  loved  him.  That  was  the  sad  part  of  it.  To  think  that 
tears  and  pleadings  and  wrath  might  not  really  avail,  after  all! 
He  could  only  love  her  out  of  a  desire  that  was  not  self-gener- 
ated. That  was  something  she  was  beginning  to  see  in  a  dim 
way  as  a  grim  truth. 

Once  she  folded  her  hands  and  sat  white  and  drawn,  staring 
at  the  floor.  "Well,  I  don't  know  what  to  do,"  she  declared. 
"I  suppose  I  ought  to  leave  you.  If  it  just  weren't  for  my  fam- 
ily! They  all  think  so  highly  of  the  marriage  state.  They  are 
so  naturally  faithful  and  decent.  I  suppose  these  qualities  have 
to  be  born  in  people.  They  can't  be  acquired.  You  would  have 
to  be  made  over." 

Eugene  knew  she  would  not  leave  him.  He  smiled  at  the 
superior  condescension  of  the  last  remark,  though  it  was  not 
intended  as  such  by  her.  To  think  of  his  being  made  over  after 
the  model  Angela  and  her  relatives  would  lay  down ! 

"I  don't  know  where  I'd  go  or  what  I'd  do,"  she  observed. 
"I  can't  go  back  to  my  family.  I  don't  want  to  go  there.  I 
haven't  been  trained  in  anything  except  school  teaching,  and  I 
hate  to  think  of  that  again.  If  I  could  only  study  stenography 
or  book-keeping!"  She  was  talking  as  much  to  clear  her  own 
mind  as  his.  She  really  did  not  know  what  to  do. 

Eugene  listened  to  this  self-demonstrated  situation  with  a 
shamed  face.  It  was  hard  for  him  to  think  of  Angela  being 
thrown  out  on  the  world  as  a  book-keeper  or  a  stenographer. 
He  did  not  want  to  see  her  doing  anything  like  that.  In  a  way, 
he  wanted  to  live  with  her,  if  it  could  be  done  in  his  way — 
much  as  the  Mormons  might,  perhaps.  What  a  lonely  life  hers 
would  be  if  she  were  away  from  him!  And  she  was  not  suited 
to  it.  She  was  not  suited  to  the  commercial  world — she  was 
too  homey,  too  housewifely.  He  wished  he  could  assure  her  now 
that  she  would  not  have  further  cause  for  grief  and  mean  it, 
but  he  was  like  a  sick  man  wishing  he  could  do  the  things  a 
hale  man  might.  There  was  no  self-conviction  in  his  thoughts, 
only  the  idea  that  if  he  tried  to  do  right  in  this  matter  he  might 
succeed,  but  he  would  be  unhappy.  So  he  drifted. 

In  the  meanwhile  Eugene  had  taken  up  his  work  with  Deegan 


388  THE    "GENIUS' 

and  was  going  through  a  very  curious  experience.  At  the  time 
Deegan  had  stated  that  he  would  take  him  he  had  written  to 
Haverford,  making  a  polite  request  for  transfer,  and  was  im- 
mediately informed  that  his  wishes  would  be  granted.  Haver- 
ford  remembered  Eugene  kindly.  He  hoped  he  was  improving. 
He  understood  from  inquiry  of  the  Superintendent  of  Buildings 
that  Deegan  wras  in  need  of  a  capable  assistant,  anyhow,  and 
that  Eugene  could  well  serve  in  that  capacity.  The  foreman 
was  always  in  trouble  about  his  reports.  An  order  was  issued 
to  Deegan  commanding  him  to  receive  Eugene,  and  another  to 
Eugene  from  the  office  of  the  Superintendent  of  Buildings  order- 
ing him  to  report  to  Deegan.  Eugene  went,  finding  him  work- 
ing on  the  problem  of  constructing  a  coal  bin  under  the  depot 
at  Fords  Centre,  and  raising  as  much  storm  as  ever.  He  was 
received  with  a  grin  of  satisfaction. 

"So  here  ye  arre.  Will,  ye're  just  in  time.  I  want  ye  to  go 
down  to  the  ahffice." 

Eugene  laughed.  "Sure,"  he  said.  Deegan  was  down  in  a 
freshly  excavated  hole  and  his  clothes  were  redolent  of  the 
freshly  turned  earth  which  surrounded  him.  He  had  a  plumb 
bob  in  his  hand  and  a  spirit  level,  but  he  laid  them  down. 
Under  the  neat  train  shed  to  which  he  crawled  when  Eugene 
appeared  and  where  they  stood,  he  fished  from  a  pocket  of  his 
old  gray  coat  a  soiled  and  crumpled  letter  which  he  carefully 
unfolded  with  his  thick  and  clumsy  fingers.  Then  he  held  it 
up  and  looked  at  it  defiantly. 

"I  want  ye  to  go  to  Woodlawn,"  he  continued,  "and  look 
after  some  bolts  that  arre  theyer — there's  a  keg  av  thim — an* 
sign  the  bill  fer  thim,  an'  ship  thim  down  to  me.  They're  not 
miny.  An'  thin  I  waant  ye  to  go  down  to  the  ahffice  an'  take 
thim  this  O.  K."  And  here  he  fished  around  and  produced  an- 
other crumpled  slip.  "It's  nonsinse!"  he  exclaimed,  when  he 
saw  it.  "It's  onraisonable!  They're  aalways  yillen  fer  thim 
O.  K.  blanks.  Ye'd  think,  begad,  I  was  goin'  to  steal  thim 
from  thim.  Ye'd  think  I  lived  on  thim  things.  O.  K.  blanks, 
O.  K.  blanks.  From  mornin'  'til  night  O.  K.  blanks.  It's  non- 
sinse! It's  onraisonable!"  And  his  face  flushed  a  defiant  red. 

Eugene  could  see  that  some  infraction  of  the  railroad's  rules 
had  occurred  and  that  Deegan  had  been  "called  down,"  or 
"jacked  up"  about  it,  as  the  railroad  men  expressed  it.  He  was 
in  a  high  state  of  dudgeon — as  defiant  and  pugnacious  as  his 
royal  Irish  temper  would  allow. 

"I'll  fix  it,"  said  Eugene.  "That's  all  right.  Leave  it  to 
me." 


THE    "GENIUS"  389 

Deegan  showed  some  signs  of  approaching  relief.  At  last  he 
had  a  man  of  "intilligence,"  as  he  would  have  expressed  it.  He 
flung  a  parting  shot  though  at  his  superior  as  Eugene  de- 
parted. 

"Tell  thim  I'll  sign  fer  thim  when  I  git  thim  and  naat  be- 
fore !"  he  rumbled. 

Eugene  laughed.  He  knew  no  such  message  would  be  ac- 
cepted, but  he  was  glad  to  give  Deegan  an  opportunity  to  blow 
off  steam.  He  entered  upon  his  new  tasks  with  vim,  pleased 
with  the  out-of-doors,  the  sunshine,  the  opportunity  for  brief 
trips  up  and  down  the  road  like  this.  It  was  delightful.  He 
would  soon  be  all  right  now,  that  he  knew. 

He  went  to  Woodlawn  and  signed  for  the  bolts;  went  to 
the  office  and  met  the  chief  clerk  (delivering  the  desired  O.  K. 
blanks  in  person)  who  informed  him  of  the  chief  difficulty  in 
Deegan's  life.  It  appeared  that  there  were  some  twenty-five  of 
these  reports  to  be  made  out  monthly,  to  say  nothing  of  endless 
O.  K.  blanks  to  be  filled  in  with  acknowledgments  of  material 
received.  Everything  had  to  be  signed  for  in  this  way,  it  mat- 
tered not  whether  it  was  a  section  of  a  bridge  or  a  single  bolt 
or  a  pound  of  putty.  If  a  man  could  sit  down  and  reel  off  a 
graphic  report  of  what  he  was  doing,  he  was  the  pride  of  the 
chief  clerk's  heart.  His  doing  the  work  properly  was  taken  as 
a  matter  of  course.  Deegan  was  not  efficient  at  this,  though  he 
was  assisted  at  times  by  his  wife  and  all  three  of  his  children, 
a  boy  and  two  girls.  He  was  constantly  in  hot  water. 

"My  God !"  exclaimed  the  chief  clerk,  when  Eugene  explained 
that  Deegan  had  thought  that  he  might  leave  the  bolts  at  the 
station  where  they  would  be  safe  until  he  needed  them  and  then 
sign  for  them  when  he  took  them  out.  He  ran  his  hands  dis- 
tractedly through  his  hair.  "What  do  you  think  of  that?"  he 
exclaimed.  "He'll  leave  them  there  until  he  needs  them,  will 
he?  What  becomes  of  my  reports?  I've  got  to  have  those 
O.  K.'s.  You  tell  Deegan  he  ought  to  know  better  than  that; 
he's  been  long  enough  on  the  road.  You  tell  him  that  I  said 
that  I  want  a  signed  form  for  everything  consigned  to  him  the 
moment  he  learns  that  it's  waiting  for  him.  And  I  want  it  with- 
out fail.  Let  him  go  and  get  it.  The  gall!  He's  got  to  come 
to  time  about  this,  or  something's  going  to  drop.  I'm  not  going 
to  stand  it  any  longer.  You'd  better  help  him  in  this.  I've  got 
to  make  out  my  reports  on  time." 

Eugene  agreed  that  he  would.  This  was  his  field.  He  could 
help  Deegan.  He  could  be  really  useful. 

Time  passed.    The  weather  grew  colder,  and  while  the  work 


390  THE    "GENIUS" 

was  interesting  at  first,  like  all  other  things  it  began  after  a  time 
to  grow  monotonous.  It  was  nice  enough  when  the  weather  was 
fine  to  stand  out  under  the  trees,  where  some  culvert  was  being 
built  to  bridge  a  small  rivulet  or  some  well  to  supply  the  freight 
engines  with  water,  and  survey  the  surrounding  landscape;  but 
when  the  weather  grew  colder  it  was  not  so  nice.  Deegan  was 
always  interesting.  He  was  forever  raising  a  ruction.  He  lived 
a  life  of  hard,  narrow  activity  laid  among  boards,  wheelbarrows, 
cement,  stone,  a  life  which  concerned  construction  and  had  no 
particular  joy  in  fruition.  The  moment  a  thing  was  nicely  fin- 
ished they  had  to  leave  it  and  go  where  everything  would  be 
torn  up  again.  Eugene  used  to  look  at  the  wounded  ground, 
the  piles  of  yellow  mud,  the  dirty  Italians,  clean  enough  in 
their  spirit,  but  soiled  and  gnarled  by  their  labor,  and  wonder 
how  much  longer  he  could  stand  it.  To  think  that  he,  of  all 
men,  should  be  here  working  with  Deegan  and  the  guineas! 
He  became  lonesome  at  times — terribly,  and  sad.  He  longed 
for  Carlotta,  longed  for  a  beautiful  studio,  longed  for  a  luxuri- 
ous, artistic  life.  It  seemed  that  life  had  wronged  him  terribly, 
and  yet  he  could  do  nothing  about  it.  He  had  no  money-making 
capacity. 

About  this  time  the  construction  of  a  rather  pretentious  ma- 
chine shop,  two  hundred  by  two  hundred  feet  and  four  storeys 
high  was  assigned  to  Deegan,  largely  because  of  the  efficiency 
which  Eugene  contributed  to  Deegan's  work.  Eugene  handled 
his  reports  and  accounts  with  rapidity  and  precision,  and  this 
so  soothed  the  division  management  that  they  had  an  oppor- 
tunity to  see  Deegan's  real  worth.  The  latter  was  besiBe  him- 
self with  excitement,  anticipating  great  credit  and  distinction  for 
the  work  he  was  now  to  be  permitted  to  do. 

'  'Tis  J:he  foine  time  we'll  have,  Eugene,  me  bye,"  he  ex- 
claimed, "puttin'  up  that  buildin'.  'Tis  no  culvert  we'll  be 
afther  buildin'  now.  Nor  no  coal  bin.  Wait  till  the  masons 
come.  Then  ye'll  see  somethin'." 

Eugene  was  pleased  that  their  work  was  progressing  so  suc- 
cessfully, but  of  course  there  was  no  future  in  it  for  him.  He 
was  lonely  and  disheartened. 

Besides,  Angela  was  complaining,  and  rightfully  enough,  that 
they  were  leading  a  difficult  life — and  to  what  end,  so  far  as 
she  was  concerned?  He  might  recover  his  health  and  his  art 
(by  reason  of  his  dramatic  shake-up  and  changes  he  appeared  to 
be  doing  so),  but  what  would  that  avail  her?  He  did  not  love 
her.  If  he  became  prosperous  again  it  might  be  to  forsake  her, 
and  at  best  he  could  only  give  her  money  and  position  if  he  ever 


THE    "GENIUS"  391 

attained  these,  and  how  would  that  help?  It  was  love  that  she 
wanted — his  love.  And  she  did  not  have  that,  or  only  a  mere 
shadow  of  it.  He  had  made  up  his  mind  after  this  last  fatal 
argument  that  he  would  not  pretend  to  anything  he  did  not  feel 
in  regard  to  her,  and  this  made  it  even  harder.  She  did  believe 
that  he  sympathized  with  her  in  his  way,  but  it  was  an  intel- 
lectual sympathy  and  had  very  little  to  do  with  the  heart.  He 
was  sorry  for  her.  Sorry !  Sorry !  How  she  hated  the  thought 
of  that !  If  he  could  not  do  any  better  than  that,  what  was  there 
in  all  the  years  to  come  but  misery? 

A  curious  fact  to  be  noted  about  this  period  was  that  sus- 
picion had  so  keyed  up  Angela's  perceptions  that  she  could  al- 
most tell,  and  that  without  knowing,  when  Eugene  was  with 
Carlotta — or  had  been.  There  was  something  about  his  man- 
ner when  he  came  in  of  an  evening,  to  say  nothing  of  those 
subtler  thought  waves  which  passed  from  him  to  her  when  he 
was  with  Carlotta,  which  told  her  instantly  where  he  had  been 
and  what  he  had  been  doing.  She  would  ask  him  where  he  had 
been  and  he  would  say:  "Oh,  up  to  White  Plains"  or  "out  to 
Scarborough,"  but  nearly  always  when  he  had  been  with  Car- 
lotta she  would  flare  up  with,  "Yes,  I  know  where  youVe  been. 
You've  been  out  again  with  that  miserable  beast  of  a  woman. 
Oh,  God  will  punish  her  yet!  You  will  be  punished !  Wait  and 
see." 

Tears  would  flood  her  eyes  and  she  would  berate  him 
roundly. 

Eugene  stood  in  profound  awe  before  these  subtle  outbreaks. 
He  could  not  understand  how  it  was  that  Angela  came  to  know 
or  suspect  so  accurately.  To  a  certain  extent  he  was  a  believer 
in  spiritualism  and  the  mysteries  of  a  subconscious  mind  or 
self.  He  fancied  that  there  must  be  some  way  of  this  sub- 
conscious self  seeing  or  apprehending  what  was  going  on  and 
of  communicating  its  knowledge  in  the  form  of  fear  and  sus- 
picion to  Angela's  mind.  If  the  very  subtleties  of  nature  were 
in  league  against  him,  how  was  he  to  continue  or  profit  in  this 
career?  Obviously  it  could  not  be  done.  He  would  prob- 
ably be  severely  punished  for  it.  He  was  half  terrified  by  the 
vague  suspicion  that  there  might  be  some  laws  which  tended 
to  correct  in  this  way  all  the  abuses  in  nature.  There  might 
be  much  vice  and  crime  going  seemingly  unpunished,  but  there 
might  also  be  much  correction  going  on,  as  the  suicides  and 
deaths  and  cases  of  insanity  seemed  to  attest.  Was  this  true? 
Was  there  no  escape  from  the  results  of  evil  except  by  abandon- 
ing it  entirely?  He  pondered  over  this  gravely. 


392  THE    "GENIUS'1 

Getting  on  his  feet  again  financially  was  not  such  an  easy 
thing.  He  had  been  out  of  touch  now  so  long  with  things 
artistic — the  magazine  world  and  the  art  agencies — that  he  felt 
as  if  he  might  not  readily  be  able  to  get  in  touch  again.  Be- 
sides he  was  not  at  all  sure  of  himself.  He  had  made  sketches 
of  men  and  things  at  Speonk,  and  of  Deegan  and  his  gang  on 
the  road,  and  of  Carlotta  and  Angela,  but  he  felt  that  they 
were  weak  in  their  import — lacking  in  the  force  and  feeling 
which  had  once  characterized  his  work.  He  thought  of  trying 
his  hand  at  newspaper  work  if  he  could  make  any  sort  of  a 
connection — working  in  some  obscure  newspaper  art  depart- 
ment until  he  should  feel  himself  able  to  do  better;  but  he 
did  not  feel  at  all  confident  that  he  could  get  that.  His  severe 
breakdown  had  made  him  afraid  of  life — made  him  yearn  for 
the  sympathy  of  a  woman  like  Carlotta,  or  of  a  larger  more 
hopeful,  more  tender  attitude,  and  he  dreaded  looking  for  any- 
thing anywhere.  Besides  he  hated  to  spare  the  time  unless  he 
were  going  to  get  somewhere.  His  work  was  so  pressing. 
But  he  knew  he  must  quit  it.  He  thought  about  it  wearily, 
wishing  he  were  better  placed  in  this  world ;  and  finally  screwed 
up  his  courage  to  leave  this  work,  though  it  was  not  until  some- 
thing else  was  quite  safely  in  his  hands. 


CHAPTER   XXX 

IT  was  only  after  a  considerable  lapse  of  time,  when  trying 
to  live  on  nine  dollars  a  week  and  seeing  Angela  struggle 
almost  hopelessly  in  her  determination  to  live  on  what  he  earned 
and  put  a  little  aside,  that  he  came  to  his  senses  and  made  a 
sincere  effort  to  find  something  better.  During  all  this  time  he 
had  been  watching  her  narrowly,  seeing  how  systematically  she 
did  all  her  own  house  work,  even  under  these  adverse  and  try- 
ing circumstances,  cooking,  cleaning,  marketing.  She  made 
over  her  old  clothes,  reshaping  them  so  that  they  would  last 
longer  and  still  look  stylish.  She  made  her  own  hats,  doing 
everything  in  short  that  she  could  to  make  the  money  in  the 
bank  hold  out  until  Eugene  should  be  on  his  feet.  She  was 
willing  that  he  should  take  money  and  buy  himself  clothes  when 
she  was  not  willing  to  spend  it  on  herself.  She  was  liv- 
ing in  the  hope  that  somehow  he  would  reform.  Consciousness 
of  what  she  was  worth  to  him  might  some  day  strike  him.  Still 
she  did  not  feel  that  things  could  ever  be  quite  the  same  again. 
She  could  never  forget,  and  neither  could  he. 

The  affair  between  Eugene  and  Carlotta,  because  of  the 
various  forces  that  were  militating  against  it,  was  now  slowly 
drawing  to  a  close.  It  had  not  been  able  to  endure  all  the  storm 
and  stress  which  followed  its  discovery.  For  one  thing,  Car- 
lotta's  mother,  without  telling  her  husband,  made  him  feel  that 
he  had  good  cause  to  stay  about,  which  made  it  difficult  for  Car- 
lotta to  act.  Besides  she  charged  her  daughter  constantly,  much 
as  Angela  was  charging  Eugene,  with  the  utmost  dissoluteness 
of  character  and  was  as  constantly  putting  her  on  the  defensive. 
She  was  too  hedged  about  to  risk  a  separate  apartment,  and 
Eugene  would  not  accept  money  from  her  to  pay  for  expensive 
indoor  entertainment.  She  wanted  to  see  him  but  she  kept  hop- 
ing he  would  get  to  the  point  where  he  would  have  a  studio 
again  and  she  could  see  him  as  a  star  in  his  own  field.  That 
would  be  so  much  nicer. 

By  degrees  their  once  exciting  engagements  began  to  lapse, 
and  despite  his  grief  Eugene  was  not  altogether  sorry.  To  tell 
the  truth,  great  physical  discomfort  recently  had  painted  his 
romantic  tendencies  in  a  very  sorry  light  for  him.  He  thought 
he  saw  in  a  way  where  they  were  leading  him.  That  there 
was  no  money  in  them  was  obvious.  That  the  affairs  of  the 

393 


394  THE    "GENIUS" 

world  were  put  in  the  hands  of  those  who  were  content  to  get 
their  life's  happiness  out  of  their  management,  seemed  quite  plain. 
Idlers  had  nothing  as  a  rule,  not  even  the  respect  of  their  fellow 
men.  The  licentious  were  worn  threadbare  and  disgraced  by 
their  ridiculous  and  psychologically  diseased  propensities.  Women 
and  men  who  indulged  in  these  unbridled  relations  were  sickly 
sentimentalists,  as  a  rule,  and  were  thrown  out  or  ignored  by 
all  forceful  society.  One  had  to  be  strong,  eager,  determined 
and  abstemious  if  wealth  was  to  come,  and  then  it  had  to  be 
held  by  the  same  qualities.  One  could  not  relax.  Otherwise 
one  became  much  what  he  was  now,  a  brooding  sentimentalist — 
diseased  in  mind  and  body. 

So  out  of  love-excitement  and  poverty  and  ill  health  and  abuse 
he  was  coming  to  see  or  thought  he  was  this  one  fact  clearly, — 
namely  that  he  must  behave  himself  if  he  truly  wished  to  suc- 
ceed. Did  he  want  to?  He  could  not  say  that.  But  he  had 
to — that  was  the  sad  part  of  it — and  since  apparently  he  had 
to,  he  would  do  the  best  he  could.  It  was  grim  but  it  was 
essential. 

At  this  time  Eugene  still  retained  that  rather  ultra  artistic 
appearance  which  had  characterized  his  earlier  years,  but  he  be- 
gan to  suspect  that  on  this  score  he  was  a  little  bizarre  and  out 
of  keeping  with  the  spirit  of  the  times.  Certain  artists  whom 
he  met  in  times  past  and  recently,  were  quite  commercial  in  their 
appearance — the  very  successful  ones — andx  he  decided  that  it 
was  because  they  put  the  emphasis  upon  the  hard  facts  of  life 
and  not  upon  the  romance  connected  with  their  work.  It  im- 
pressed him  and  he  decided  to  do  likewise,  abandoning  the  flow- 
ing tie  and  the  rather  indiscriminate  manner  he  had  of  comb- 
ing his  hair,  and  thereafter  affected  severe  simplicity.  He  still 
wore  a  soft  hat  because  he  thought  it  became  him  best,  but 
otherwise  he  toned  himself  down  greatly.  His  work  with  Dee- 
gan  had  given  him  a  sharp  impression  of  what  hard,  earnest 
labor  meant.  Deegan  was  nothing  but  a  worker.  There  was 
no  romance  in  him.  He  knew  nothing  about  romance.  Picks 
and  shovels  and  mortar  boards  and  concrete  forms — such  was  his 
life,  and  he  never  complained.  Eugene  remembered  commiserat- 
ing him  once  on  having  to  get  up  at  four  A.  M.  in  order  to  take 
a  train  which  would  get  to  work  by  seven.  Darkness  and  cold 
made  no  difference  to  him,  however. 

"Shewer,  I  have  to  be  theyre,"  he  had  replied  with  his  quiz- 
zical Irish  grin.  "They're  not  payin'  me  me  wages  fer  lyin' 
in  bed.  If  ye  were  to  get  up  that  way  every  day  fer  a  year  it 
would  make  a  man  of  ye!" 


THE    "GENIUS"  395 

"Oh,  no,"  said  Eugene  teasingly. 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  Deegan,  "it  would.  An'  yere  the  wan  that's 
needin'  it.  I  can  tell  that  by  the  cut  av  ye." 

Eugene  resented  this  but  it  stayed  by  him.  Deegan  had  the 
habit  of  driving  home  salutary  lessons  in  regard  to  work  and 
abstemiousness  without  really  meaning  to.  The  two  were  wholly 
representative  of  him — just  those  two  things  and  nothing  more. 

One  day  he  went  down  into  Printing  House  Square  to  see  if 
he  could  not  make  up  his  mind  to  apply  at  one  of  the  news- 
paper art  departments,  when  he  ran  into  Hudson  Dula  whom 
he  had  not  seen  for  a  long  while.  The  latter  was  delighted 
to  see  him. 

"Why,  hello,  Witla!"  he  exclaimed,  shocked  to  see  that  he 
was  exceptionally  thin  and  pale.  "Where  have  you  been  all 
these  years?  I'm  delighted  to  see  you.  What  have  you  been  do- 
ing? Let's  go  over  here  to  Hahn's  and  you  tell  me  all  about 
yourself." 

"I've  been  sick,  Dula,"  said  Eugene  frankly.  "I  had  a  severe 
case  of  nervous  breakdown  and  I've  been  working  on  the  rail- 
road for  a  change.  I  tried  all  sorts  of  specialists,  but  they 
couldn't  help  me.  So  I  decided  to  go  to  work  by  the  day  and 
see  what  that  would  do.  I  got  all  out  of  sorts  with  myself 
and  I've  been  pretty  near  four  years  getting  back.  I  think  I 
am  getting  better,  though.  I'm  going  to  knock  off  on  the 
road  one  of  these  days  and  try  my  hand  at  painting  again.  I 
think  I  can  do  it." 

"Isn't  that  curious,"  replied  Dula  reminiscently,  "I  was  just 
thinking  of  you  the  other  day  and  wondering  where  you  were. 
You  know  I've  quit  the  art  director  game.  Truth  failed  and 
I  went  into  the  lithographic  business.  I  have  a  small  interest  in 
a  plant  that  I'm  managing  down  in  Bond  Street.  I  wish  you'd 
come  in  and  see  me  some  day." 

"I  certainly  will,"  said  Eugene. 

"Now  this  nervousness  of  yours,"  said  Dula,  as  they  strolled 
into  the  restaurant  where  they  were  dining.  "I  have  a  brother- 
in-law  that  was  hit  that  way.  He's  still  doctoring  around.  I'm 
going  to  tell  him  about  your  case.  You  don't  look  so  bad." 

"I'm  feeling  much  better,"  said  Eugene.  "I  really  am  but 
I've  had  a  bad  spell  of  it.  I'm  going  to  come  back  in  the  game, 
though,  I  feel  sure  of  it.  When  I  do  I'll  know  better  how  to 
take  care  of  myself.  I  over-worked  on  that  first  burst  of 
pictures." 

"I  must  say  that  was  the  best  stuff  of  that  kind  I  ever  saw 
done  in  this  country,"  said  Dula.  "I  saw  both  your  shows, 


396  THE    '"GENIUS" 

as  you  remember.  They  were  splendid.  What  became  of  all 
those  pictures?51 

"Oh,  some  were  sold  and  the  rest  are  in  storage,"  replied 
Eugene. 

"Curious,  isn't  it,"  said  Dula.  "I  should  have  thought  all 
those  things  would  have  been  purchased.  They  were  so  new  and 
forceful  in  treatment.  You  want  to  pull  yourself  together  and 
stay  pulled.  You're  going  to  have  a  great  future  in  that  field." 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  replied  Eugene  pessimistically.  "It's 
all  right  to  obtain  a  big  reputation,  but  you  can't  live  on  that, 
you  know.  Pictures  don't  sell  very  well  over  here.  I  have  most 
of  mine  left.  A  grocer  with  one  delivery  wagon  has  the  best 
artist  that  ever  lived  backed  right  off  the  board  for  financial 
results." 

"Not  quite  as  bad  as  that,"  said  Dula  smilingly.  "An  artist 
has  something  which  a  tradesman  can  never  have — you  want  to 
remember  that.  His  point  of  view  is  worth  something.  He 
lives  in  a  different  world  spiritually.  And  then  financially  yom 
can  do  well  enough — you  can  live,  and  what  more  do  you  want? 
You're  received  everywhere.  You  have  what  the  tradesman 
cannot  possibly  attain — distinction;  and  you  give  the  world  a 
standard  of  merit — you  will,  at  least.  If  I  had  your  ability  I 
would  never  sit  about  envying  any  butcher  or  baker.  Why,  all 
the  artists  know  you  now — the  good  ones,  anyhow.  It  only 
remains  for  you  to  do  more,  to  obtain  more.  There  are  lots 
of  things  you  can  do." 

"What,  for  instance?"  asked  Eugene. 

"Why,  ceilings,  mural  decorations.  I  was  saying  to  someone 
the  other  day  what  a  mistake  it  was  the  Boston  Library  did 
not  assign  some  of  their  panels  to  you.  You  would  make 
splendid  things  of  them." 

"You  certainly  have  a  world  of  faith  in  me,"  replied  Eugene, 
tingling  warmly.  It  was  like  a  glowing  fire  to  hear  this  after 
all  the  dreary  days.  Then  the  world  still  remembered  him.  He 
was  worth  while. 

"Do  you  remember  Oren  Benedict — you  used  to  know  him 
out  in  Chicago,  didn't  you?" 

"I  certainly  did,"  replied  Eugene.    "I  worked  with  him." 

"He's  down  on  the  World  now,  in  charge  of  the  art  depart- 
ment there.  He's  just  gone  there."  Then  as  Eugene  ex- 
claimed over  the  curious  shifts  of  time,  he  suddenly  added,  "Why 
wouldn't  that  be  a  good  idea  for  you?  You  say  you're  just 
about  to  knock  off.  Why  don't  you  go  down  and  do  some 


THE  "GENIUS'  397 

pen  work  to  get  your  hand  in?  It  would  be  a  good  experience 
for  you.  Benedict  would  be  glad  to  put  you  on,  I'm  sure." 

Dula  suspected  that  Eugene  might  be  put  of  funds,  and  this 
would  be  an  easy  way  for  him  to  slip  into  something  which 
would  lead  back  to  studio  work.  He  liked  Eugene.  He  was 
anxious  to  see  him  get  along.  It  flattered  him  to  think  he 
had  been  the  first  to  publish  his  work  in  color. 

"That  isn't  a  bad  idea,"  said  Eugene.  "I  was  really  think- 
ing of  doing  something  like  that  if  I  could.  I'll  go  up  and  see 
him  maybe  today.  It  would  be  just  the  thing  I  need  now, — a 
little  preliminary  practise.  I  feel  rather  rusty  and  uncertain." 

"I'll  call  him  up,  if  you  want,"  said  Dula  generously.  "I 
know  him  well.  He  was  asking  me  the  other  day  if  I  knew  one 
or  two  exceptional  men.  You  wait  here  a  minute." 

Eugene  leaned  back  in  his  chair  as  Dula  left.  Could  it  be 
that  he  was  going  to  be  restored  thus  easily  to  something  better? 
He  had  thought  it  would  be  so  hard.  Now  this  chance  was 
coming  to  lift  him  out  of  his  sufferings  at  the  right  time. 

Dula  came  back.  "He  says  'Sure,'  "  he  exclaimed.  "  'Come 
right  down!'  You'd  better  go  down  there  this  afternoon. 
That'll  be  just  the  thing  for  you.  And  when  you  are  placed 
again,  come  around  and  see  me.  Where  are  you  living?" 

Eugene  gave  him  his  address. 

"That's  right,  you're  married,"  he  added,  when  Eugene  spoke 
of  himself  and  Angela  having  a  small  place.  "How  is  Mrs. 
Witla?  I  remember  her  as  a  very  charming  woman.  Mrs. 
Dula  and  I  have  an  apartment  in  Gramercy  Place.  You  didn't 
know  I  had  tied  up,  did  you?  Well,  I  have.  Bring  your  wife 
and  come  to  see  us.  We'll  be  delighted.  I'll  make  a  dinner 
date  for  you  two." 

Eugene  was  greatly  pleased  and  elated.  He  knew  Angela 
would  be.  They  had  seen  nothing  of  artistic  life  lately.  He 
hurried  down  to  see  Benedict  and  was  greeted  as  an  old  ac- 
quaintance. They  had  never  been  very  chummy  but  always 
friendly.  Benedict  had  heard  of  Eugene's  nervous  breakdown. 

"Well,  I'll  tell  you,"  he  said,  after  greeting  and  reminiscences 
were  over,  "I  can't  pay  very  much — fifty  dollars  is  high  here 
just  at  present,  and  I  have  just  one  vacancy  now  at  twenty-five 
which  you  can  have  if  you  want  to  try  your  hand.  There's 
a  good  deal  of  hurry  up  about  at  times,  but  you  don't  mind 
that.  When  I  get  things  straightened  out  here  I  may  have 
something  better." 

"Oh,  that's  all  right,"  replied  Eugene  cheerfully.    "I'm  glad 


398  THE    "GENIUS" 

to  get  that."  (He  was  very  glad  indeed.)  "And  I  don't  mind 
the  hurry.  It  will  be  good  for  a  change/' 

Benedict  gave  him  a  friendly  handshake  in  farewell.  He 
was  glad  to  have  him,  for  he  knew  what  he  could  do. 

"I  don't  think  I  can  come  before  Monday.  I  have  to  give 
a  few  days'  notice.  Is  that  all  right?" 

"I  could  use  you  earlier,  but  Monday  will  do,"  said  Bene- 
dict, and  they  parted  genially. 

Eugene  hurried  back  home.  He  was  delighted  to  tell  Angela, 
for  this  would  rob  their  condition  of  part  of  its  gloom.  It  was 
no  great  comfort  to  him  to  be  starting  in  as  a  newspaper 
artist  again  at  twenty-five  dollars  a  wreek,  but  it  couldn't  be 
helped,  and  it  was  better  than  nothing.  At  least  it  was  putting 
him  back  on  the  track  again.  He  was  sure  to  do  still  better 
after  this.  He  could  hold  this  newspaper  job,  he  felt,  and  out- 
side that  he  didn't  care  very  much  for  the  time  being;  his 
pride  had  received  some  severe  jolts.  It  was  vastly  better  than 
day  labor,  anyway.  He  hurried  up  the  four  flights  of  stairs  to 
the  cheap  little  quarters  they  occupied,  saying  when  he  saw 
Angela  at  the  gas  range:  "Well,  I  guess  our  railroad  days  are 
over." 

"What's  the  trouble?"  asked  Angela  apprehensively. 

"No  trouble,"  he  replied.     "I  have  a  better  job." 

"What  is  it?" 

"I'm  going  to  be  a  newspaper  artist  for  a  while  on  the 
World." 

"When  did  you  find  that  out?"  she  asked,  brightening,  for 
she  had  been  terribly  depressed  over  their  state. 

"This  afternoon.  I'm  going  to  work  Monday.  Twenty-five 
dollars  will  be  some  better  than  nine,  won't  it?" 

Angela  smiled.  "It  certainly  will,"  she  said,  and  tears  of 
thanksgiving  filled  her  eyes. 

Eugene  knew  what  those  tears  stood  for.  He  was  anxious 
to  avoid  painful  reminiscences. 

"Don't  cry,"  he  said.  "Things  are  going  to  be  much  better 
from  now  on." 

"Oh,  I  hope  so,  I  hope  so,"  she  murmured,  and  he  patted 
her  head  affectionately  as  it  rested  on  his  shoulder. 

"There  now.  Cheer  up,  girlie,  will  you!  We're  going  to 
be  all  right  from  now  on." 

Angela  smiled  through  her  tears.  She  set  the  table,  exceed- 
ingly cheerful. 

"That  certainly  is  good  news,"  she  laughed  afterward.  "But 
we're  not  going  to  spend  any  more  money  for  a  long  while, 


THE    "GENIUS"  399 

anyhow.  We're  going  to  save  something.  We  don't  want  to 
get  in  this  hole  again." 

"No  more  for  mine,"  replied  Eugene  gaily,  "not  if  I  know 
my  business,"  and  he  went  into  the  one  little  combination 
parlor,  sitting  room,  reception  room  and  general  room  of  all 
work,  to  open  his  evening  newspaper  and  whistle.  In  his  excite- 
ment he  almost  forgot  his  woes  over  Carlotta  and  the  love 
question  in  general.  He  was  going  to  climb  again  in  the 
world  and  be  happy  with  Angela.  He  was  going  to  be  an 
artist  or  a  business  man  or  something.  Look  at  Hudson  Dula. 
Owning  a  lithographic  business  and  living  in  Gramercy  Place. 
Could  any  artist  he  knew  do  that?  Scarcely.  He  would  see 
about  this.  He  would  think  this  art  business  over.  Maybe  he 
could  be  an  art  director  or  a  lithographer  or  something.  He 
had  often  thought  while  he  was  with  the  road  that  he  could 
be  a  good  superintendent  of  buildings  if  he  could  only  give  it 
time  enough. 

Angela,  for  her  part,  was  wondering  what  this  change  really 
spelled  for  her.  Would  he  behave  now?  Would  he  set  him- 
self to  the  task  of  climbing  slowly  and  surely?  He  was  getting 
along  in  life.  He  ought  to  begin  to  place  himself  securely  in 
the  world  if  he  ever  was  going  to.  Her  love  was  not  the 
same  as  it  had  formerly  been.  It  was  crossed  with  dislike  and 
opposition  at  times,  but  still  she  felt  that  he  needed  her  to 
help  him.  Poor  Eugene — if  he  only  were  not  cursed  with  this 
weakness.  Perhaps  he  would  overcome  it?  So  she  mused. 


CHAPTER   XXXI 

THE  work  which  Eugene  undertook  in  connection  with  the 
art  department  of  the  World  was  not  different  from  that 
which  he  had  done  ten  years  before  in  Chicago.  It  seemed  no 
less  difficult  for  all  his  experience — more  so  if  anything,  for  he 
felt  above  it  these  days  and  consequently  out  of  place.  He 
wished  at  once  that  he  could  get  something  which  would  pay 
him  commensurately  with  his  ability.  To  sit  down  among 
mere  boys — there  were  men  there  as  old  as  himself  and  older, 
though,  of  course,  he  did  not  pay  so  much  attention  to  them 
— was  galling.  He  thought  Benedict  should  have  had  more 
respect  for  his  talent  than  to  have  offered  him  so  little,  though 
at  the  same  time  he  was  grateful  for  what  he  had  received.  He 
undertook  energetically  to  carry  out  all  the  suggestions  given 
him,  and  surprised  his  superior  with  the  speed  and  imagina- 
tion with  which  he  developed  everything.  He  surprised  Benedict 
the  second  day  with  a  splendid  imaginative  interpretation  of 
"the  Black  Death,"  which  was  to  accompany  a  Sunday  news- 
paper article  upon  the  modern  possibilities  of  plagues.  The 
latter  saw  at  once  that  Eugene  could  probably  only  be  re- 
tained a  very  little  while  at  the  figure  he  had  given  him.  He 
had  made  the  mistake  of  starting  him  low,  thinking  that 
Eugene's  talent  after  so  severe  an  illness  might  be  at  a  very  low 
ebb.  He  did  not  know,  being  new  to  the  art  directorship  of  a 
newspaper,  how  very  difficult  it  was  to  get  increases  for  those 
under  him.  An  advance  of  ten  dollars  to  anyone  meant  earnest 
representation  and  an  argument  with  the  business  manager, 
and  to  double  and  treble  the  salary,  which  should  have  been 
done  in  this  case,  was  out  of  the  question.  Six  months  was  a 
reasonable  length  of  time  for  anyone  to  wait  for  an  increase — 
such  was  the  dictate  of  the  business  management — and  in 
Eugene's  case  it  was  ridiculous  and  unfair.  However,  being 
still  sick  and  apprehensive,  he  was  content  to  abide  by  the  situa- 
tion, hoping  with  returning  strength  and  the  saving  of  a  little 
money  to  put  himself  right  eventually. 

Angela,  of  course,  was  pleased  with  the  turn  of  affairs.  Hav- 
ing suffered  so  long  with  only  prospects  of  something  worse  in 
store,  it  was  a  great  relief  to  go  to  the  bank  every  Tuesday — 
Eugene  was  paid  on  Monday — and  deposit  ten  dollars  against 
a  rainy  day.  It  was  agreed  between  them  that  they  might  use 
six  for  clothing,  which  Angela  and  Eugene  very  much  needed, 

400 


THE    "GENIUS'  401 

and  some  slight  entertainment.  It  was  not  long  before  Eugene 
began  to  bring  an  occasional  newspaper  artist  friend  up  to  dinner, 
and  they  were  invited  out.  They  had  gone  without  much 
clothing,  with  scarcely  a  single  visit  to  the  theatre,  without 
friends — everything.  Now  the  tide  began  slowly  to  change; 
in  a  little  while,  because  they  were  more  free  to  go  to  places, 
they  began  to  encounter  people  whom  they  knew. 

There  was  six  months  of  the  drifting  journalistic  work,  in 
which  as  in  his  railroad  work  he  grew  more  and  more  restless, 
and  then  there  came  a  time  when  he  felt  as  if  he  could  not 
stand  that  for  another  minute.  He  had  been  raised  to  thirty- 
five  dollars  and  then  fifty,  but  it  was  a  terrific  grind  of  exag- 
gerated and  to  him  thoroughly  meretricious  art.  The  only  valu- 
able results  in  connection  with  it  were  that  for  the  first  time  in 
his  life  he  was  drawing  a  moderately  secure  living  salary,  and 
that  his  mind  was  fully  occupied  with  details  which  gave  him 
no  time  to  think  about  himself.  He  was  in  a  large  room  sur- 
rounded by  other  men  who  were  as  sharp  as  knives  in  their 
thrusts  of  wit,  and  restless  and  greedy  in  their  attitude  toward 
the  world.  They  wanted  to  live  brilliantly,  just  as  he  did, 
only  they  had  more  self-confidence  and  in  many  cases  that  ex- 
treme poise  which  comes  of  rare  good  health.  They  were  in- 
clined to  think  he  was  somewhat  of  a  poseur  at  first,  but  later 
they  came  to  like  him — all  of  them.  He  had  a  winning  smile 
and  his  love  of  a  joke,  so  keen,  so  body-shaking,  drew  to  him  all 
those  who  had  a  good  story  to  tell. 

"Tell  that  to  Witla,"  was  a  common  phrase  about  the  office 
and  Eugene  was  always  listening  to  someone.  He  came  to 
lunching  with  first  one  and  then  another,  then  three*  or  four 
at  a  time;  and  by  degrees  Angela  was  compelled  to  entertain 
Eugene  and  two  or  three  of  his  friends  twice  and  sometimes 
three  times  a  week.  She  objected  greatly,  and  there  was  some 
feeling  over  that,  for  she  had  no  maid  and  she  did  not  think 
that  Eugene  ought  to  begin  so  soon  to  put  the  burden  of  en- 
tertainment upon  their  slender  income.  She  wanted  him  to 
make  these  things  very  formal  and  by  appointment,  but  Eugene 
would  stroll  in  genially,  explaining  that  he  had  Irving  Nelson 
with  him,  or  Henry  Hare,  or  George  Beers,  and  asking  nerv- 
ously at  the  last  minute  whether  it  was  all  right.  Angela  would 
say,  "Certainly,  to  be  sure,"  in  front  of  the  guests,  but  when 
they  were  alone  there  would  be  tears  and  reproaches  and  firm 
declarations  that  she  would  not  stand  it. 

"Well,  I  won't  do  it  any  more,"  Eugene  would  apologize. 
"I  forgot,  you  know." 


402  THE   "GENIUS'1 

Still  he  wanted  Angela  to  get  a  maid  and  let  him  bring  all 
who  would  come.  It  was  a  great  relief  to  get  back  into  the 
swing  of  things  and  see  life  broadening  out  once  more. 

It  was  not  so  long  after  he  had  grown  exceedingly  weary  of 
his  underpaid  relationship  to  the  World  that  he  heard  of  some- 
thing which  promised  a  much  better  avenue  of  advancement. 
Eugene  had  been  hearing  for  some  time  from  one  source  and 
another  of  the  development  of  art  in  advertising.  He  had  read 
one  or  two  articles  on  the  subject  in  the  smaller  magazines,  had 
seen  from  time  to  time  curious  and  sometimes  beautiful  series 
of  ads  run  by  first  one  corporation  and  then  another,  advertising 
some  product.  He  had  always  fancied  in  looking  at  these 
things  that  he  could  get  up  a  notable  series  on  almost  any  sub- 
ject, and  he  wondered  who  handled  these  things.  He  asked 
Benedict  one  night,  going  up  on  the  car  with  him,  what  he 
knew  about  it. 

"Why  so  far  as  I  know,"  said  Benedict,  "that  is  coming  to 
be  quite  a  business.  There  is  a  man  out  in  Chicago,  Saljerian, 
an  American  Syrian — his  father  was  a  Syrian,  but  he  was  born 
over  here — who  has  built  up  a  tremendous  business  out  of  de- 
signing series  of  ads  like  that  for  big  corporations.  He  got  up 
that  Molly  Maguire  series  for  the  new  cleaning  fluid.  I  don't 
think  he  does  any  of  the  work  himself.  He  hires  artists  to  do 
it.  Some  of  the  best  men,  I  understand,  have  done  work  for 
him.  He  gets  splendid  prices.  Then  some  of  the  big  advertis- 
ing agencies  are  taking  up  that  work.  One  of  them  I  know. 
The  Summerville  Company  has  a  big  art  department  in  con- 
nection with  it.  They  employ  fifteen  to  eighteen  men  all  the 
time,  sometimes  more.  They  turn  out  some  fine  ads,  too,  to  my 
way  of  thinking.  Do  you  remember  that  Korno  series?" — 
Benedict  was  referring  to  a  breakfast  food  which  had  been  ad- 
vertised by  a  succession  of  ten  very  beautiful  and  very  clever 
pictures. 

"Yes,"  replied  Eugene. 

"Well,  they  did  that." 

Eugene  thought  of  this  as  a  most  interesting  development. 
Since  the  days  in  which  he  worked  on  the  Alexandria  Appeal 
he  had  been  interested  in  ads.  The  thought  of  ad  creation 
took  his  fancy.  It  was  newer  than  anything  else  he  had  en- 
countered recently.  He  wondered  if  there  would  not  be  some 
chance  in  that  field  for  him.  His  paintings  were  not  selling. 
He  had  not  the  courage  to  start  a  new  series.  If  he  could 
make  some  money  first,  say  ten  thousand  dollars,  so  that  he 
could  get  an  interest  income  of  say  six  or  seven  hundred  dollars 


THE   "GENIUS"  403 

a  year,  he  might  be  willing  to  risk  art  for  art's  sake.  He  had 
suffered  too  much — poverty  had  scared  him  so  that  he  was 
very  anxious  to  lean  on  a  salary  or  a  business  income  for 
the  time  being. 

It  was  while  he  was  speculating  over  this  almost  daily  that 
there  came  to  him  one  day  a  young  artist  who  had  formerly 
worked  on  the  World — a  youth  by  the  name  of  Morgenbau — 
— Adolph  Morgenbau — who  admired  Eugene  and  his  work 
greatly  and  who  had  since  gone  to  another  paper.  He  was  very 
anxious  to  tell  Eugene  something,  for  he  had  heard  of  a  change 
coming  in  the  art  directorship  of  the  Summerville  Company 
and  he  fancied  for  one  reason  and  another  that  Eugene  might 
be  glad  to  know  of  it.  Eugene  had  never  looked  to  Morgen- 
bau like  a  man  who  ought  to  be  working  in  a  newspaper  art 
department.  He  was  too  self-poised,  too  superior,  too  wise. 
Morgenbau  had  conceived  the  idea  that  Eugene  was  destined 
to  make  a  great  hit  of  some  kind  and  with  that  kindling  intuition 
that  sometimes  saves  us  whole  he  was  anxious  to  help  Eugene 
in  some  way  and  so  gain  his  favor. 

"I  have  something  I'd  like  to  tell  you,  Mr.  Witla,"  he  ob- 
served. 

"Well,  what  is  it?"  smiled  Eugene. 

"Are  you  going  out  to  lunch  ?" 

"Certainly,  come  along." 

They  went  out  together  and  Morgenbau  communicated  to 
Eugene  what  he  had  heard — that  the  Summerfield  Company  had 
just  dismissed,  or  parted  company  with,  or  lost,  a  very  capable 
director  by  the  name  of  Freeman,  and  that  they  were  looking 
for  a  new  man. 

"Why  don't  you  apply  for  that?"  asked  Morgenbau.  "You 
could  hold  it.  You're  doing  just  the  sort  of  work  that  would 
make  great  ads.  You  know  how  to  handle  men,  too.  They 
like  you.  All  the  young  fellows  around  here  do.  Why  don't 
you  go  and  see  Mr.  Summerfield?  He's  up  in  Thirty-fourth 
Street.  You  might  be  just  the  man  he's  looking  for,  and  then 
you'd  have  a  department  of  your  own." 

Eugene  looked  at  this  boy,  wondering  what  had  put  this 
idea  in  his  head.  He  decided  to  call  up  Dula  and  did  so 
at  once,  asking  him  what  he  thought  would  be  the  best  move 
to  make.  The  latter  did  not  know  Summerville,  but  he  knew 
someone  who  did. 

"I'll  tell  you  what  you  do,  Eugene,"  he  said.  "You  go 
and  see  Baker  Bates  of  the  Satina  Company.  That's  at  the 
corner  of  Broadway  and  Fourth  Street.  We  do  a  big  busi- 


404  THE    "GENIUS" 

ness  with  the  Satina  Company,  and  they  do  a  big  business  with 
Summerfield.  I'll  send  a  letter  over  to  you  by  a  boy  and  you 
take  that.  Then  Fll  call  Bates  up  on  the  phone,  and  if  he's 
favorable  he  can  speak  to  Summerfield.  He'll  want  to  see  you, 
though." 

Eugene  was  very  grateful  and  eagerly  awaited  the  arrival  of 
the  letter.  He  asked  Benedict  for  a  little  time  off  and  went 
to  Mr.  Baker  Bates.  The  latter  had  heard  enough  from  Dula 
to  be  friendly.  He  had  been  told  by  the  latter  that  Eugene 
was  potentially  a  great  artist,  slightly  down  on  his  luck,  but 
that  he  was  doing  exceedingly  well  where  he  was  and  would' 
do  better  in  the  new  place.  He  was  impressed  by  Eugene's 
appearance,  for  the  latter  had  changed  his  style  from  the  semi- 
artistic  to  the  practical.  He  thought  Eugene  looked  capable. 
He  was  certainly  pleasant. 

"I'll  talk  to  Mr.  Summerfield  for  you,"  he  said,  "though  I 
wouldn't  put  much  hope  in  what  will  come  of  it  if  I  were  you. 
He's  a  difficult  man  and  it's  best  not  to  appear  too  eager  in  this 
matter.  If  he  can  be  induced  to  send  for  you  it  will  be  much 
better.  You  let  this  rest  until  tomorrow.  I'll  call  him  up  on 
another  matter  and  take  him  out  to  lunch,  and  then  I'll  see  how 
he  stands  and  who  he  has  in  mind,  if  he  has  anyone.  He  may 
have,  you  know.  If  there  is  a  real  opening  I'll  speak  of  you. 
We'll  see." 

Eugene  went  away  once  more,  very  grateful.  He  was  think- 
ing that  Dula  had  always  meant  good  luck  to  him.  He  had 
taken  his  first  important  drawing.  The  pictures  he  had  pub- 
lished for  him  had  brought  him  the  favor  of  M.  Charles. 
Dula  had  secured  him  the  position  that  he  now  had.  Would 
he  be  the  cause  of  his  getting  this  one? 

On  the  way  down  town  on  the  car  he  encountered  a  cross- 
eyed boy.  He  had  understood  from  someone  recently  that  cross- 
eyed boys  were  good  luck — cross-eyed  women  bad  luck.  A  thrill 
of  hopeful  prognostication  passed  over  him.  In  all  likelihood  he 
was  going  to  get  this  place.  If  this  sign  came  true  this  time, 
he  would  believe  in  signs.  They  had  come  true  before,  but  this 
would  be  a  real  test.  He  stared  cheerfully  at  the  boy  and  the 
latter  looked  him  full  in  the  eyes  and  grinned. 

"That  settles  it!"  said  Eugene.     "I'm  going  to  get  it." 

Still  he  was  far  from  being  absolutely  sure. 


CHAPTER  XXXII 

THE  Summerfield  Advertising  Agency,  of  which  Mr.  Daniel 
C.  Summerfield  was  president,  was  one  of  those  curious 
exfoliations  or  efflorescences  of  the  personality  of  a  single  individ- 
ual which  is  so  often  met  with  in  the  business  world,  and  which 
always  means  a  remarkable  individual  behind  them.  The  ideas, 
the  enthusiasm,  the  strength  of  Mr.  Daniel  C.  Summerfield  was 
all  there  was  to  the  Summerfield  Advertising  Agency.  It  was 
true  there  was  a  large  force  of  men  working  for  him,  advertis- 
ing canvassers,  advertising  writers,  financial  accountants,  artists, 
stenographers,  book-keepers  and  the  like,  but  they  were  all  as 
it  were  an  emanation  or  irradiation  of  the  personality  of  Mr. 
Daniel  C.  Summerfield.  He  was  small,  wiry,  black-haired, 
black-eyed,  black-mustached,  with  an  olive  complexion  and  even, 
pleasing,  albeit  at  times  wolfish,  white  teeth  which  indicated 
a  disposition  as  avid  and  hungry  as  a  disposition  well  might  be. 

Mr.  Summerfield  had  come  up  into  his  present  state  of  af- 
fluence or  comparative  affluence  from  the  direst  poverty  and  by 
the  directest  route — his  personal  efforts.  In  the  State  in  which 
he  had  originated,  Alabama,  his  family  had  been  known,  in 
the  small  circle  to  which  they  were  known  at  all,  as  poor  white 
trash.  His  father  had  been  a  rather  lackadaisical,  half-starved 
cotton  planter  who  had  been  satisfied  with  a  single  bale  or  less 
of  cotton  to  the  acre  on  the  ground  which  he  leased,  and  who 
drove  a  lean  mule  very  much  the  worse  for  age  and  wear,  up 
and  down  the  furrows  of  his  leaner  fields  the  while  he  com- 
plained of  "the  misery"  in  his  breast.  He  was  afflicted  with  slow 
consumption  or  thought  he  was,  which  was  just  as  effective, 
and  in  addition  had  hook-worm,  though  that  parasitic  producer 
of  hopeless  tiredness  was  not  yet  discovered  and  named. 

Daniel  Christopher,  his  eldest  son,  had  been  raised  with 
scarcely  any  education,  having  been  put  in  a  cotton  mill  at 
the  age  of  seven,  but  nevertheless  he  soon  manifested  himself 
as  the  brain  of  the  family.  For  four  years  he  worked  in  the 
cotton  mill,  and  then,  because  of  his  unusual  brightness,  he 
had  been  given  a  place  in  the  printing  shop  of  the  Wickham 
Union,  where  he  was  so  attractive  to  the  slow-going  proprietor 
that  he  soon  became  foreman  of  the  printing  department  and 
then  manager.  He  knew  nothing  of  printing  or  newspapers 
at  the  time,  but  the  little  contact  he  obtained  here  soon  cleared 

405 


406  THE    "GENIUS" 

his  vision.  He  saw  instantly  what  the  newspaper  business  was, 
and  decided  to  enter  it.  Later,  as  he  grew  older,  he  suspected 
that  no  one  knew  very  much  about  advertising  as  yet,  or  very 
little,  and  that  he  was  called  by  God  to  revise  it.  With  this 
vision  of  a  still  wider  field  of  usefulness  in  his  mind,  he  began 
at  once  to  prepare  himself  for  it,  reading  all  manner  of  ad- 
vertising literature  and  practicing  the  art  of  display  and  ef- 
fective statement.  He  had  been  through  such  bitter  things  as 
personal  fights  with  those  who  worked  under  him,  knocking  one 
man  down  with  a  heavy  iron  form  key;  personal  altercation 
with  his  own  father  and  mother  in  which  he  frankly  told  them 
that  they  were  failures,  and  that  they  had  better  let  him  show 
them  something  about  regulating  their  hopeless  lives.  He  had 
quarreled  with  his  younger  brothers,  trying  to  dominate  them, 
and  had  succeeded  in  controlling  the  youngest,  principally  for 
the  very  good  reason  that  he  had  become  foolishly  fond  of  him; 
this  younger  brother  he  later  introduced  into  his  advertising 
business.  He  had  religiously  saved  the  little  he  had  earned 
thus  far,  invested  a  part  of  it  in  the  further  development  of 
the  Wickham  Union,  bought  his  father  an  eight  acre  farm,  which 
he  showed  him  how  to  work,  and  finally  decided  to  come  to 
New  York  to  see  if  he  could  not  connect  himself  with  some 
important  advertising  concern  where  he  could  learn  something 
more  about  the  one  thing  that  interested  him.  He  was  already 
married,  and  he  brought  his  young  wife  with  him  from  the 
South. 

He  soon  connected  himself  as  a  canvasser  with  one  of  the 
great  agencies  and  advanced  rapidly.  He  was  so  smiling,  so 
bland,  so  insistent,  so  magnetic,  that  business  came  to  him  rapidly. 
He  became  the  star  man  in  this  New  York  concern  and  Alfred 
Cookman,  who  was  its  owner  and  manager,  was  soon  ponder- 
ing what  he  could  do  to  retain  him.  No  individual  or  concern 
could  long  retain  Daniel  C.  Summerfield,  however,  once  he 
understood  his  personal  capabilities.  In  two  years  he  had 
learned  all  that  Alfred  Cookman  had  to  teach  him  and  more 
than  he  could  teach  him.  He  knew  his  customers  and  what 
their  needs  were,  and  where  the  lack  was  in  the  service  which 
Mr.  Cookman  rendered  them.  He  foresaw  the  drift  toward 
artistic  representation  of  saleable  products,  and  decided  to  go 
into  that  side  of  it.  He  would  start  an  agency  which  would 
render  a  service  so  complete  and  dramatic  that  anyone  who  could 
afford  to  use  his  service  would  make  money. 

When  Eugene  first  heard  of  this  agency,  the  Summerfield 
concern  was  six  years  old  and  rapidly  growing.  It  was  already 


THE  ''GENIUS'1  407 

very  large  and  profitable  and  as  hard  and  forceful  as  its  owner, 
Daniel  C.  Summerfield,  sitting  in  his  private  office,  was  abso- 
lutely ruthless  in  his  calculations  as  to  men.  He  had  studied 
the  life  of  Napoleon  and  had  come  to  the  conclusion  that  no 
individual  life  was  important.  Mercy  was  a  joke  to  be  elimi- 
nated from  business.  Sentiment  was  silly  twaddle.  The  thing 
to  do  was  to  hire  men  as  cheaply  as  possible,  to  drive  them 
as  vigorously  as  possible,  and  to  dispose  of  them  quickly  when 
they  showed  signs  of  weakening  under  the  strain.  He  had  al- 
ready had  five  art  directors  in  as  many  years,  had  "hired  and 
fired,"  as  he  termed  it,  innumerable  canvassers,  ad  writers, 
book-keepers,  stenographers,  artists — getting  rid  of  anyone  and 
everyone  who  showed  the  least  sign  of  incapacity  or  inefficiency. 
The  great  office  floor  which  he  maintained  was  a  model  of 
cleanliness,  order — one  might  almost  say  beauty  of  a  commer- 
cial sort,  but  it  was  the  cleanliness,  order  and  beauty  of  a  hard, 
polished  and  well-oiled  machine.  Daniel  C.  Summerfield  was 
not  much  more  than  that,  but  he  had  long  ago  decided  that 
was  what  he  must  be  in  order  not  to  be  a  failure,  a  fool,  and 
as  he  called  it,  "a  mark,"  and  he  admired  himself  for  being 
so. 

When  Mr.  Baker  Bates  at  Hudson  Dula's  request  went  to 
Mr.  Summerfield  in  regard  to  the  rumored  vacancy  which  really 
existed,  the  latter  was  in  a  most  receptive  frame  of  mind.  He 
had  just  come  into  two  very  important  advertising  contracts 
which  required  a  lot  of  imagination  and  artistic  skill  to  exe- 
cute, and  he  had  lost  his  art  director  because  of  a  row  over  a 
former  contract.  It  was  true  that  in  very  many  cases — in  most 
cases,  in  fact — his  customers  had  very  definite  ideas  as  to  what 
they  wanted  to  say  and  how  they  wanted  to  say  it,  but  not 
always.  They  were  almost  always  open  to  suggestions  as  to 
modifications  and  improvements,  and  in  a  number  of  very  im- 
portant cases  they  were  willing  to  leave  the  entire  theory  of  pro- 
cedure to  the  Summerfield  Advertising  Company.  This  called 
for  rare  good  judgment  not  only  in  the  preparation,  but  in  the 
placing  of  these  ads,  and  it  was  in  the  matter  of  their  prepara- 
tion— the  many  striking  ideas  which  they  should  embody — that 
the  judgment  and  assistance  of  a  capable  art  director  of  real 
imagination  was  most  valuable. 

As  has  already  been  said,  Mr.  Summerfield  had  had  five  art 
directors  in  almost  as  many  years.  In  each  case  he  had  used 
the  Napoleonic  method  of  throwing  a  fresh,  unwearied  mind 
into  the  breach  of  difficulty,  and  when  it  wearied  or  broke  under 
the  strain,  tossing  it  briskly  out.  There  was  no  compunction 


4o8  THE    "GENIUS" 

or  pity  connected  with  any  detail  of  this  method.  "I  hire  good 
men  and  I  pay  them  good  wages,"  was  his  favorite  comment. 
"Why  shouldn't  I  expect  good  results  ?"  If  he  was  wearied 
or  angered  by  failure  he  was  prone  to  exclaim — "These  God- 
damned cattle  of  artists !  What  can  you  expect  of  them  ?  They 
don't  know  anything  outside  their  little  theory  of  how  things 
ought  to  look.  They  don't  know  anything  about  life.  Why, 
God  damn  it,  they're  like  a  lot  of  children.  Why  should  any- 
body pay  any  attention  to  what  they  think?  Who  cares  what 
they  think?  They  give  me  a  pain  in  the  neck."  Mr.  Daniel 
C.  Summerfield  was  very  much  given  to  swearing,  more  as  a 
matter  of  habit  than  of  foul  intention,  and  no  picture  of  him 
would  be  complete  without  the  interpolation  of  his  favorite 
expressions. 

When  Eugene  appeared  on  the  horizon  as  a  possible  appli- 
cant for  this  delightful  position,  Mr.  Daniel  C.  Summerfield 
was  debating  with  himself  just  what  he  should  do  in  con- 
nection with  the  two  new  contracts  in  question.  The  adver- 
tisers were  awaiting  his  suggestions  eagerly.  One  was  for  the 
nation-wide  advertising  of  a  new  brand  of  sugar,  the  second  for 
the  international  display  of  ideas  in  connection  with  a  series  of 
French  perfumes,  the  sale  of  which  depended  largely  upon  the 
beauty  with  which  they  could  be  interpreted  to  the  lay  mind. 
The  latter  were  not  only  to  be  advertised  in  the  United  States 
and  Canada,  but  in  Mexico  also,  and  the  fulfilment  of  the 
contracts  in  either  case  was  dependent  upon  the  approval  given 
by  the  advertisers  to  the  designs  for  newspaper,  car  and  bill- 
board advertising  which  he  should  submit.  It  was  a  ticklish 
business,  worth  two  hundred  thousand  dollars  yi  ultimate  profits, 
and  naturally  he  was  anxious  that  the  man  who  should  sit  in 
the  seat  of  authority  in  his  art  department  should  be  one  of 
real  force  and  talent — a  genius  if  possible,  who  should,  through 
his  ideas,  help  him  win  his  golden  harvest. 

The  right  man  naturally  was  hard  to  find.  The  last  man  had 
been  only  fairly  capable.  He  was  dignified,  meditative,  thought- 
ful, with  considerable  taste  and  apprehension  as  to  what  the 
material  situation  required  in  driving  home  simple  ideas,  but  he 
had  no  great  imaginative  grasp  of  life.  In  fact  no  man  who 
had  ever  sat  in  the  director's  chair  had  ever  really  suited  Mr. 
Summerfield.  According  to  him  they  had  all  been  weaklings. 
"Dubs;  fakes;  hot  air  artists,"  were  some  of  his  descriptions 
of  them.  Their  problem,  however,  was  a  hard  one,  for  they  had 
to  think  very  vigorously  in  connection  with  any  product  which 
he  might  be  trying  to  market,  and  to  offer  him  endless  sugges- 


THE    "GENIUS"  409 

tions  as  to  what  would  be  the  next  best  thing  for  a  manufacturer 
to  say  or  do  to  attract  attention  to  what  he  had  to  sell.  It 
might  be  a  catch  phrase  such  as  "Have  You  Seen  This  New 
Soap?"  or  "Do  You  Know  Soresda?— It's  Red."  It  might  be 
that  a  novelty  in  the  way  of  hand  or  finger,  eye  or  mouth  was 
all  that  was  required,  carrying  some  appropriate  explanation  in 
type.  Sometimes,  as  in  the  case  of  very  practical  products,  their 
very  practical  display  in  some  clear,  interesting,  attractive  way 
was  all  that  was  needed.  In  most  cases,  though,  something 
radically  new  was  required,  for  it  was  the  theory  of  Mr.  Sum- 
merfield that  his  ads  must  not  only  arrest  the  eye,  but  fix  them- 
selves in  the  memory,  and  convey  a  fact  which  was  or  at  least 
could  be  made  to  seem  important  to  the  reader.  It  was  a 
struggling  with  one  of  the  deepest  and  most  interesting  phases 
of  human  psychology. 

The  last  man,  Older  Freeman,  had  been  of  considerable  use 
to  him  in  his  way.  He  had  collected  about  him  a  number  of 
fairly  capable  artists — men  temporarily  down  on  their  luck — 
who  like  Eugene  were  willing  to  take  a  working  position  of  this 
character,  and  from  them  he  had  extracted  by  dint  of  pleading, 
cajoling,  demonstrating  and  the  like  a  number  of  interesting 
ideas.  Their  working  hours  were  from  nine  to  five-thirty,  their 
pay  meagre — eighteen  to  thirty-five,  with  experts  drawing  in 
several  instances  fifty  and  sixty  dollars,  and  their  tasks  innumer- 
able and  really  never-ending.  Their  output  was  regulated  by  a 
tabulated  record  system  which  kept  account  of  just  how  much 
they  succeeded  in  accomplishing  in  a  week,  and  how  much  it 
was  worth  to  the  concern.  The  ideas  on  which  they  worked 
were  more  or  less  products  of  the  brains  of  the  art  director 
and  his  superior,  though  they  occasionally  themselves  made  im- 
portant suggestions,  but  for  their  proper  execution,  the  amount 
of  time  spent  on  them,  the  failures  sustained,  the  art  director 
was  more  or  less  responsible.  He  could  not  carry  to  his  employer 
a  poor  drawing  of  a  good  idea,  or  a  poor  idea  for  something 
which  required  a  superior  thought,  and  long  hope  to  retain  his 
position.  Mr.  Daniel  C.  Summerfield  was  too  shrewd  and  too 
exacting.  He  was  really  tireless  in  his  energy.  It  was  his  art 
director's  business,  he  thought,  to  get  him  good  ideas  for  good 
drawings  and  then  to  see  that  they  were  properly  and  speedily 
executed. 

Anything  less  than  this  was  sickening  failure  in  the  eyes  of 
Mr.  Summerfield,  and  he  was  not  at  all  bashful  in  expressing 
himself.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  he  was  at  times  terribly  brutal. 
"Why  the  hell  do  you  show  me  a  thing  like  that?"  he  once 


410  THE    "GENIUS" 

exclaimed  to  Freeman.  "Jesus  Christ;  I  could  hire  an  ashman 
and  get  better  results.  Why,  God  damn  it,  look  at  the  draw- 
ing of  the  arm  of  that  woman.  Look  at  her  ear.  Whose  going 
to  take  a  thing  like  that?  It's  tame!  It's  punk!  It's  a  joke! 
What  sort  of  cattle  have  you  got  out  there  working  for  you, 
anyhow?  Why,  if  the  Summerfield  Advertising  Company  can't 
do  better  than  that  I  might  as  well  shut  up  the  place  and  go 
fishing.  We'll  be  a  joke  in  six  weeks.  Don't  try  to  hand  me 
any  such  God  damned  tripe  as  that,  Freeman.  You  know  bet- 
ter. You  ought  to  know  our  advertisers  wouldn't  stand  for 
anything  like  that.  Wake  up!  I'm  paying  you  five  thousand 
a  year.  How  do  you  expect  I'm  going  to  get  my  money  back 
out  of  any  such  arrangement  as  that?  You're  simply  wasting 
my  money  and  your  time  letting  a  man  draw  a  thing  like  that* 
Hell!!" 

The  art  director,  whoever  he  was,  having  been  by  degrees 
initiated  into  the  brutalities  of  the  situation,  and  having — by  rea- 
son of  the  time  he  had  been  employed  and  the  privileges  he  had 
permitted  himself  on  account  of  his  comfortable  and  probably 
never  before  experienced  salary — sold  himself  into  bondage  to 
his  now  fancied  necessities,  was  usually  humble  and  tractable 
under  the  most  galling  fire.  Where  could  he  go  and  get  five 
thousand  dollars  a  year  for  his  services?  How  could  he  live  at 
the  rate  he  was  living  if  he  lost  this  place?  Art  directorships 
were  not  numerous.  Men  who  could  fill  them  fairly  acceptably 
were  not  impossible  to  find.  If  he  thought  at  all  and  was  not 
a  heaven-born  genius  serene  in  the  knowledge  of  his  God- 
given  powers,  he  was  very  apt  to  hesitate,  to  worry,  to  be  humble 
and  to  endure  a  good  deal.  Most  men  under  similar  circum- 
stances do  the  same  thing.  They  think  before  they  fling  back 
into  the  teeth  of  their  oppressors  some  of  the  slurs  and  brutal 
characterizations  which  so  frequently  issue  therefrom.  Most 
men  do.  Besides  there  is  almost  always  a  high  percentage  of 
truth  in  the  charges  made.  Usually  the  storm  is  for  the  better- 
ment of  mankind.  Mr.  Summerfield  knew  this.  He  knew  also 
the  yoke  of  poverty  and  the  bondage  of  fear  which  most  if  not 
all  his  men  were  under.  He  had  no  compunctions  about  using 
these  weapons,  much  as  a  strong  man  might  use  a  club.  He  had 
had  a  hard  life  himself.  No  one  had  sympathized  with  him 
very  much.  Besides  you  couldn't  sympathize  and  succeed.  Bet- 
ter look  the  facts  in  the  face,  deal  only  with  infinite  capacity, 
roughly  weed  out  the  incompetents  and  proceed  along  the  line 
of  least  resistance,  in  so  far  as  your  powerful  enemies  were 
concerned.  Men  might  theorize  and  theorize  until  the  crack 


THE   "GENIUS"  411 

of  doom,  but  this  was  the  way  the  thing  had  to  be  done  and  this 
was  the  way  he  preferred  to  do  it. 

Eugene  had  never  heard  of  any  of  these  facts  in  connection 
with  the  Summerfield  Company.  The  idea  had  been  flung  at 
him  so  quickly  he  had  no  time  to  think,  and  besides  if  he  had 
had  time  it  would  have  made  no  difference.  A  little  experience 
of  life  had  taught  him  as  it  teaches  everyone  else  to  mistrust 
rumor.  He  had  applied  for  the  place  on  hearing  and  he  was 
hoping  to  get  it.  At  noon  the  day  following  his  visit  to  Mr. 
Baker  Bates,  the  latter  was  speaking  for  him  to  Mr.  Summer- 
field,  but  only  very  casually. 

"Say,"  he  asked,  quite  apropos  of  nothing  apparently,  for 
they  were  discussing  the  chances  of  his  introducing  his  product 
into  South  America,  "do  you  ever  have  need  of  an  art  director 
over  in  your  place?" 

"Occasionally,"  replied  Summerfield  guardedly,  for  his  im- 
pression was  that  Mr.  Baker  Bates  knew  very  little  of  art  di- 
rectors or  anything  else  in  connection  with  the  art  side  of  ad- 
vertising life.  He  might  have  heard  of  his  present  need  and  be 
trying  to  palm  off  some  friend  of  his,  an  incompetent,  of  course, 
on  him.  "What  makes  you  ask?" 

"Why,  Hudson  *  Dula,  the  manager  of  the  Triple  Litho- 
graphic Company,  was  telling  me  of  a  man  who  is  connected 
with  the  World  who  might  make  a  good  one  for  you.  I  know 
something  of  him.  He  painted  some  rather  remarkable  views 
of  New  York  and  Paris  here  a  few  years  ago.  Dula  tells  me 
they  were  very  good." 

"Is  he  young?"   interrupted   Summerfield,   calculating. 

"Yes,  comparatively.     Thirty-one  or  two,  I  should  say." 

"And  he  wants  to  be  an  art  director,  does  he.    Where  is  he?" 

"He's  down  on  the  World,  and  I  understand  he  wants  to  get 
out  of  there.  I  heard  you  say  last  year  that  you  were  looking 
for  a  man,  and  I  thought  this  might  interest  you." 

"What's  he  doing  down  on  the  World?' 

"He's  been  sick,  I  understand,  and  is  just  getting  on  his 
feet  again." 

The  explanation  sounded  sincere  enough  to  Summerfield. 

"What's  his  name?"  he  asked. 

"Witla,  Eugene  Witla.  He  had  an  exhibition  at  one  of 
the  galleries  here  a  few  years  ago." 

"I'm  afraid  of  these  regular  high-brow  artists,"  observed  Sum- 
merfield suspiciously.  "They're  usually  so  set  up  about  their 
art  that  there's  no  living  with  them.  I  have  to  have  someone 
with  hard,  practical  sense  in  my  work.  Someone  that  isn't  a 


412  THE    "GENIUS" 

plain  damn  fool.  He  has  to  be  a  good  manager — a  good  ad- 
ministrator, mere  talent  for  drawing  won't  do — though  he  has 
to  have  that,  or  know  it  when  he  sees  it.  You  might  send  this 
fellow  around  sometime  if  you  know  him.  I  wouldn't  mind 
looking  at  him.  I  may  need  a  man  pretty  soon.  I'm  thinking 
of  making  certain  changes." 

"If  I  see  him  I  will,"  said  Baker  indifferently  and  dropped 
the  matter.  Summerfield,  however,  for  some  psychological  rea- 
son was  impressed  with  the  name.  Where  had  he  heard  it? 
Somewhere  apparently.  Perhaps  he  had  better  find  out  some- 
thing about  him. 

"If  you  send  him  you'd  better  give  him  a  letter  of  intro- 
duction," he  added  thoughtfully,  before  Bates  should  have  for- 
gotten the  matter.  "So  many  people  try  to  get  in  to  see  me, 
and  I  may  forget." 

Baker  knew  at  once  that  Summerfield  wished  to  look  at  Witla. 
He  dictated  a  letter  of  introduction  that  afternoon  to  his  ste- 
nographer and  mailed  it  to  Eugene. 

"I  find  Mr.  Summerfield  apparently  disposed  to  see  you,"  he 
wrote.  "You  had  better  go  and  see  him  if  you  are  interested. 
Present  this  letter.  Very  truly  yours." 

Eugene  looked  at  it  with  astonishment  and  a  sense  of  fore- 
goneness  so  far  as  what  was  to  follow.  Fate  was  fixing  this 
for  him.  He  was  going  to  get  it.  How  strange  life  was !  Here 
he  was  down  on  the  World  working  for  fifty  dollars  a  week, 
and  suddenly  an  art  directorship,  a  thing  he  had  thought  of  for 
years,  was  coming  to  him  out  of  nowhere!  Then  he  decided 
to  telephone  Mr.  Daniel  Summerfield,  saying  that  he  had  a 
letter  from  Mr.  Baker  Bates  and  asking  when  he  could  see 
him.  Later  he  decided  to  waste  no  time,  but  to  present  the 
letter  direct  without  phoning.  At  three  in  the  afternoon  he  re- 
ceived permission  from  Benedict  to  be  away  from  the  office 
between  three  and  five,  and  at  three-thirty  he  was  in  the  ante- 
room of  the  general  offices  of  the  Summerfield  Advertising 
Company,  waiting  for  a  much  desired  permission  to  enter. 


CHAPTER   XXXIII 

WHEN  Eugene  called,  Mr.  Daniel  C.  Summerfield  was 
in  no  great  rush  about  any  particular  matter,  but  he 
had  decided  in  this  case  as  he  had  in  many  others  that  it  was 
very  important  that  anyone  who  wanted  anything  from  him 
should  be  made  to  wait.  Eugene  was  made  to  wait  a  solid 
hour  before  he  was  informed  by  an  underling  that  he  was  very 
sorry  but  that  other  matters  had  so  detained  Mr.  Summerfield 
that  it  was  now  impossible  for  him  to  see  him  at  all  this  day, 
but  that  tomorrow  at  twelve  he  would  be  glad  to  see  him. 
Eugene  was  finally  admitted  on  the  morrow,  however,  and 
then,  at  the  first  glance,  Mr.  Summerfield  liked  him.  "A  man 
of  intelligence,"  he  thought,  as  he  leaned  back  in  his  chair  and 
stared  at  him.  "A  man  of  force.  Young  still,  wide-eyed, 
quick,  clean  looking.  Perhaps  I  have  found  someone  in  this 
man  who  will  make  a  good  art  director."  He  smiled,  for 
Summerfield  was  always  good-natured  in  his  opening  relation- 
ships— usually  so  in  all  of  them,  and  took  most  people  (his  em- 
ployees and  prospective  employees  particularly)  with  an  air  of 
superior  but  genial  condescension. 

"Sit  down!  Sit  down!"  he  exclaimed  cheerfully  and  Eugene 
did  so,  looking  about  at  the  handsomely  decorated  walls,  the  floor 
which  was  laid  with  a  wide,  soft,  light  brown  rug,  and  the 
mahogany  desk,  flat-topped,  glass  covered,  on  which  lay  hand- 
some ornaments  of  silver,  ivory  and  bronze.  This  man  looked 
so  keen,  so  dynamic,  like  a  polished  Japanese  carving,  hard 
and  smooth. 

"Now  tell  me  all  about  yourself,"  began  Summerfield. 
"Where  do  you  come  from?  Who  are  you?  What  have  you 
done?" 

"Hold!  Hold!"  said  Eugene  easily  and  tolerantly.  "Not 
so  fast.  My  history  isn't  so  much.  The  short  and  simple  an- 
nals of  the  poor.  I'll  tell  you  in  two  or  three  sentences." 

Summerfield  was  a  little  taken  back  at  this  abruptness  which 
was  generated  by  his  own  attitude;  still  he  liked  it.  This 
was  something  new  to  him.  His  applicant  wasn't  frightened 
or  apparently  even  nervous  so  far  as  he  could  judge.  "He  is 
droll,"  he  thought,  "sufficiently  so — a  man  who  has  seen  a  num- 
ber of  things  evidently.  He  is  easy  in  manner,  too,  and  kindly." 

"Well,"  he  said  smilingly,  for  Eugene's  slowness  appealed  to 
him.  His  humor  was  something  new  in  art  directors.  So  far 

413 


414  THE    "GENIUS'' 

as  he  could  recall,  his  predecessors  had  never  had  any  to  speak  of. 

"Well,  I'm  an  artist,"  said  Eugene,  "working  on  the  World. 
Let's  hope  that  don't  militate  against  me  very  much." 

"It  don't,"  said  Summerfield. 

"And  I  want  to  become  an  art  director  because  I  think  I'd 
make  a  good  one." 

"Why?"  asked  Summerfield,  his  even  teeth  showing  amiably. 

"Well,  because  I  like  to  manage  men,  or  I  think  I  do.  And 
they  take  to  me." 

"You  know  that?" 

"I  do.  In  the  next  place  I  know  too  much  about  art  to 
want  to  do  the  little  things  that  I'm  doing.  I  can  do  bigger 
things." 

"I  like  that  also,"  applauded  Summerfield.  He  was  think- 
ing that  Eugene  was  nice  and  good  looking,  a  little  pale  and 
thin  to  be  wholly  forceful,  perhaps,  he  wasn't  sure.  His  hair 
a  little  too  long.  His  manner,  perhaps,  a  bit  too  deliberate. 
Still  he  was  nice.  Why  did  he  wear  a  soft  hat?  Why  did 
artists  always  insist  on  wearing  soft  hats,  most  of  them?  It 
was  so  ridiculous,  so  unbusinesslike. 

"How  much  do  you  get?"  he  added,  "if  it's  a  fair  question." 

"Less  than  I'm  worth,"  said  Eugene.  "Only  fifty  dollars. 
But  I  took  it  as  a  sort  of  health  cure.  I  had  a  nervous  break- 
down several  years  ago — better  now,  as  Mulvaney  used  to  say — 
and  I  don't  want  to  stay  at  that.  I'm  an  art  director  by  tem- 
perament, or  I  think  I  am.  Anyhow,  here  I  am." 

"You  mean,"  said  Summerfield,  "you  never  ran  an  art  de- 
partment before?" 

"Never." 

"Know  anything  about  advertising?" 

"I  used  to  think  so." 

"How  long  ago  was  that?" 

"When  I  worked  on  the  Alexandria,  Illinois,  Daily  Appeal." 

Summerfield  smiled.     He  couldn't  help  it. 

"That's  almost  as  important  as  the  Wickham  Union,  I  fancy. 
It  sounds  as  if  it  might  have  the  same  wide  influence." 

"Oh,  much  more,  much  more,"  returned  Eugene  quietly. 
"The  Alexandria  Appeal  had  the  largest  exclusively  country 
circulation  of  any  county  south  of  the  Sangamon." 

"I  see!  I  see!"  replied  Summerfield  good-humoredly.  "It's 
all  day  with  the  Wickham  Union.  Well,  how  was  it  you  came 
to  change  your  mind?" 

"Well,  I  got  a  few  years  older  for  one  thing,"  said  Eugene. 
"And  then  I  decided  that  I  was  cut  out  to  be  the  greatest  living 


THE    '  'GENIUS15  415 

artist,  and  then  I  came  to  New  York,  and  in  the  excitement 
I  almost  lost  the  idea." 

jjl  see." 

"But  I  have  it  again,  thank  heaven,  tied  up  back  of  the 
house,  and  here  I  am." 

"Well,  Witla,  to  tell  you  the  truth  you  don't  look  like  a 
real  live,  every  day,  sure-enough  art  director,  but  you  might 
make  good.  You're  not  quite  art-y  enough  according  to  the 
standards  that  prevail  around  this  office.  Still  I  might  be  will- 
ing to  take  one  gosh-awful  chance.  I  suppose  if  I  do  I'll  get 
stung  as  usual,  but  I've  been  stung  so  often  that  I  ought  to  be 
used  to  it  by  now.  I  feel  sort  of  spotted  at  times  from  the 
hornets  I've  hired  in  the  past.  But,  be  that  as  it  may,  what  do 
you  think  you  could  do  with  a  real  live  art  directorship  if  you 
had  it?" 

Eugene  mused.  This  persiflage  entertained  him.  He  thought 
Summerfield  would  hire  him  now  that  they  were  together. 

"Oh,  I'd  draw  my  salary  first  and  then  I'd  see  that  I  had 
the  proper  system  of  approach  so  that  any  one  who  came  to  see 
me  would  think  I  was  the  King  of  England,  and  then  I'd " 

"I  was  really  busy  yesterday,"  interpolated  Summerfield  apolo- 
getically. 

"I'm  satisfied  of  that,"  replied  Eugene  gaily.  "And  finally 
I  might  condescend,  if  I  were  coaxed  enough,  to  do  a  little 
work." 

This  speech  at  once  irritated  and  amused  Mr.  Summerfield. 
He  liked  a  man  of  spirit.  You  could  do  something  with  some- 
one who  wasn't  afraid,  even  if  he  didn't  know  so  much  to  begin 
with.  And  Eugene  knew  a  good  deal,  he  fancied.  Besides,  his 
talk  was  precisely  in  his  own  sarcastic,  semi-humorous  vein. 
Coming  from  Eugene  it  did  not  sound  so  hard  as  it  would  have 
coming  from  himself,  but  it  had  his  own  gay,  bantering  attitude 
of  mind  in  it.  He  believed  Eugene  could  make  good.  He 
wanted  to  try  him,  instanter,  anyhow. 

"Well,  I'll  tell  you  what,  Witla,"  he  finally  observed.  "I 
don't  know  whether  you  can  run  this  thing  or  not — the  prob- 
abilities are  all  against  you  as  I  have  said,  but  you  seem  to 
have  some  ideas  or  what  might  be  made  some  under  my  direc- 
tion, and  I  think  I'll  give  you  a  chance.  Mind  you,  I  haven't 
much  confidence.  My  personal  likes  usually  prove  very  fatal  to 
me.  Still,  you're  here,  and  I  like  your  looks  and  I  haven't  seen 
anyone  else,  and  so " 

"Thanks,"  said   Eugene. 

"Don't  thank  me.     You  have  a  hard  job  ahead  of  you  if  I 


416  THE    "GENIUS" 

take  you.  It's  no  child's  play.  You'd  better  come  with  me 
first  and  look  over  the  place,"  and  he  led  the  way  out  into  the 
great  central  room  where,  because  it  was  still  noon  time,  there 
were  few  people  working,  but  where  one  could  see  just  how 
imposing  this  business  really  was. 

"Seventy-two  stenographers,  book-keepers,  canvassers  and 
writers  and  trade-aid  people  at  their  desks,"  he  observed  with 
an  easy  wave  of  his  hand,  and  moved  on  into  the  art  depart- 
ment, which  was  in  another  wing  of  the  building  where  a  north 
and  east  light  could  be  secured.  "Here's  where  you  come  in," 
he  observed,  throwing  open  the  door  where  thirty-two  artists' 
desks  and  easels  were  ranged.  Eugene  was  astonished. 

"You  don't  employ  that  many,  do  you?"  he  asked  interestedly. 
Most  of  the  men  were  out  to  lunch. 

"From  twenty  to  twenty-five  all  the  time,  sometimes  more," 
he  said.  "Some  on  the  outside.  It  depends  on  the  condition 
of  business." 

"And  how  much  do  you  pay  them,  as  a  rule?" 

"Well,  that  depends.  I  think  I'll  give  you  seventy-five 
dollars  a  week  to  begin  with,  if  we  come  to  an  understanding. 
If  you  make  good  I'll  make  it  a  hundred  dollars  a  week  inside 
of  three  months.  It  all  depends.  The  others  we  don't  pay  so 
much.  The  business  manager  can  tell  you." 

Eugene  noticed  the  evasion.  His  eyes  narrowed.  Still  there 
was  a  good  chance  here.  Seventy-five  dollars  was  considerably 
better  than  fifty  and  it  might  lead  to  more.  He  would  be  his 
own  boss — a  man  of  some  consequence.  He  could  not  help 
stiffening  with  pride  a  little  as  he  looked  at  the  room  which 
Summerfield  pointed  out  to  him  as  his  own  if  he  came — a  room 
where  a  large,  highly  polished  oak  desk  was  placed  and  where 
some  of  the  Summerfield  Advertising  Company's  art  products 
were  hung  on  the  walls.  There  was  a  nice  rug  on  the  floor 
and  some  leather-backed  chairs. 

"Here's  where  you  will  be  if  you  come  here,"  said  Summer- 
field. 

Eugene  gazed  round.  Certainly  life  was  looking  up.  How 
was  he  to  get  this  place?  On  what  did  it  depend?  His  mind 
was  running  forward  to  various  improvements  in  his  affairs,  a 
better  apartment  for  Angela,  better  clothes  for  her,  more  enter- 
tainment for  both  of  them,  freedom  from  worry  over  the  future; 
for  a  little  bank  account  would  soon  result  from  a  place  like 
this. 

"Do  you  do  much  business  a  year?"  Eugene  asked  curiously. 

"Oh,  about  two  million  dollars'  worth." 


THE  "GENIUS"  417 

And  you  have  to  make  drawings  for  every  ad  ?" 

"Exactly,  not  one  but  six  or  eight  sometimes.  It  depends 
upon  the  ability  of  the  art  director.  If  he  does  his  work  right 
I  save  money." 

Eugene  saw  the  point. 

"What  became  of  the  other  man?"  he  asked,  noting  the  name 
of  Older  Freeman  on  the  door. 

"Oh,  he  quit,"  said  Summerville,  "or  rather  he  saw  what 
was  coming  and  got  out  of  the  way.  He  was  no  good.  He 
was  too  weak.  He  was  turning  out  work  here  which  was  a 
joke — some  things  had  to  be  done  over  eight  and  nine  times." 

Eugene  discovered  the  wrath  and  difficulties  and  opposition 
which  went  with  this.  Summerfield  was  a  hard  man,  plainly. 
He  might  smile  and  joke  now,  but  anyone  who  took  that  chair 
would  hear  from  him  constantly.  For  a  moment  Eugene  felt 
as  though  he  could  not  do  it,  as  though  he  had  better  not  try 
it,  and  then  he  thought,  "Why  shouldn't  I?  It  can't  hurt  me. 
If  worst  comes  to  worst,  I  have  my  art  to  fall  back  on." 

"Well,  so  it  goes,"  he  said.  "If  I  don't  make  good,  the 
door  for  mine,  I  suppose?" 

"No,  no,  nothing  so  easy,"  chuckled  Summerfield;  "the  coal 
chute." 

Eugene  noticed  that  he  champed  his  teeth  like  a  nervous 
horse,  and  that  he  seemed  fairly  to  radiate  waves  of  energy. 
For  himself  he  winced  the  least  bit.  This  was  a  grim,  fight- 
ing atmosphere  he  was  coming  into.  He  would  have  to  fight 
for  his  life  here — no  doubt  of  that. 

"Now,"  said  Summerfield,  when  they  were  strolling  back 
to  his  own  office.  "I'll  tell  you  what  you  might  do.  I  have 
two  propositions,  one  from  the  Sand  Perfume  Company  and 
another  from  the  American  Crystal  Sugar  Refining  Company 
which  may  mean  big  contracts  for  me  if  I  can  present  them 
the  right  line  of  ideas  for  advertising.  They  want  to  adver- 
tise. The  Sand  Company  wants  suggestions  for  bottles,  labels, 
car  ads,  newspaper  ads,  posters,  and  so  on.  The  American 
Crystal  Company  wants  to  sell  its  sugar  in  small  packages, 
powdered,  grained,  cubed,  hexagoned.  We  want  package  forms, 
labels,  posters  ads,  and  so  on  for  that.  It's  a  question  of  how 
much  novelty,  simplicity  and  force  we  can  put  in  the  smallest 
possible  space.  Now  I  depend  upon  my  art  director  to  tell  me 
something  about  these  things.  I  don't  expect  him  to  do  every- 
thing. I'm  here  and  I'll  help  him.  I  have  men  in  the  trade 
aid  department  out  there  who  are  wonders  at  making  sugges- 
tions along  this  line,  but  the  art  director  is  supposed  to  help. 


418  THE    "GENIUS'1 

He's  the  man  who  is  supposed  to  have  the  taste  and  can  exe- 
cute the  proposition  in  its  last  form.  Now  suppose  you  take 
these  two  ideas  and  see  what  you  can  do  with  them.  Bring 
me  some  suggestions.  If  they  suit  me  and  I  think  you  have 
the  right  note,  I'll  hire  you.  If  not,  well  then  I  won't,  and 
no  harm  done.  Is  that  all  right?'* 

"That's  all  right,"  said  Eugene. 

Mr.  Summerfield  handed  him  a  bundle  of  papers,  catalogues, 
prospectuses,  communications.  "You  can  look  these  over  if  you 
wrant  to.  Take  them  along  and  then  bring  them  back." 

Eugene  rose. 

"I'd  like  to  have  two  or  three  days  for  this/'  he  said.  "It's 
a  new  proposition  to  me.  I  think  I  can  give  you  some  ideas 
— I'm  not  sure.  Anyhow,  I'd  like  to  try." 

"Go  ahead!  Go  ahead!"  said  Summerfield,  "the  more  the 
merrier.  And  I'll  see  you  any  time  you're  ready.  I  have  a 
man  out  there — Freeman's  assistant — who's  running  things  for 
me  temporarily.  Here's  luck,"  and  he  waved  his  hand  indif- 
ferently. 

Eugene  went  out.  Was  there  ever  such  a  man,  so  hard,  so 
cold,  so  practical!  It  was  a  new  note  to  him.  He  was  simply 
astonished,  largely  because  he  was  inexperienced.  He  had  not 
yet  gone  up  against  the  business  world  as  those  who  try  to  do 
anything  in  a  big  way  commercially  must.  This  man  was  get- 
ting on  his  nerves  already,  making  him  feel  that  he  had  a 
tremendous  problem  before  him,  making  him  think  that  the 
quiet  realms  of  art  were  merely  the  backwaters  of  oblivion. 
Those  who  did  anything,  who  were  out  in  the  front  row  of  ef- 
fort, were  fighters  such  as  this  man  was,  raw  products  of  the 
soil,  ruthless,  superior,  indifferent.  If  only  he  could  be  that 
way,  he  thought.  If  he  could  be  strong,  defiant,  commanding, 
what  a  thing  it  would  be.  Not  to  wince,  not  to  quail,  but  to 
stand  up  firm,  square  to  the  world  and  make  people  obey.  Oh, 
what  a  splendid  vision  of  empire  was  here  before  him. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV 

THE  designs  or  suggestions  which  Eugene  offered  his  pros- 
pective employer  for  the  advertising  of  the  products  of  M. 
Sand  et  Cie  and  the  American  Crystal  Sugar  Refining  Com- 
pany, were  peculiar.  As  has  been  indicated,  Eugene  had  one  of 
those  large,  effervescent  intelligences  which  when  he  was  in 
good  physical  condition  fairly  bubbled  ideas.  His  imaginings, 
without  any  effort  on  his  part,  naturally  took  all  forms  and 
shapes.  The  call  of  Mr.  Summerfield  was  for  street  car  cards, 
posters  and  newspaper  ads  of  various  sizes,  and  what  he  wanted 
Eugene  specifically  to  supply  was  not  so  much  the  lettering  or 
rather  wording  of  the  ads  as  it  was  their  artistic  form  and  illus- 
trative point:  what  one  particular  suggestion  in  the  form  of  a 
drawing  or  design  could  be  made  in  each  case  which  would 
arrest  public  attention.  Eugene  went  home  and  took  the  sugar 
proposition  under  consideration  first.  He  did  not  say  anything 
of  what  he  was  really  doing  to  Angela,  because  he  did  not  want 
to  disappoint  her.  He  pretended  that  he  was  making  sketches 
which  he  might  offer  to  some  company  for  a  little  money  and  be- 
cause it  amused  him.  By  the  light  of  his  green  shaded  working 
lamp  at  home  he  sketched  designs  of  hands  holding  squares  of 
sugar,  either  in  the  fingers  or  by  silver  and  gold  sugar  tongs, 
urns  piled  high  with  crystalline  concoctions,  a  blue  and  gold 
after-dinner  cup  with  one  lump  of  the  new  form  on  the  side 
against  a  section  of  snow  white  table  cloth,  and  things  of  that 
character.  He  worked  rapidly  and  with  ease  until  he  had  some 
thirty-five  suggestions  on  this  one  proposition  alone,  and  then 
he  turned  his  attention  to  the  matter  of  the  perfumery. 

His  first  thought  was  that  he  did  not  know  all  the  designs 
of  the  company's  bottles,  but  he  originated  peculiar  and  delight- 
ful shapes  of  his  own,  some  of  which  were  afterwards  adopted 
by  the  company.  He  designed  boxes  and  labels  to  amuse  him- 
self and  then  made  various  still-life  compositions  such  as  a  box, 
a  bottle,  a  dainty  handkerchief  and  a  small  white  hand  all  show- 
ing in  a  row.  His  mind  slipped  to  the  manufacture  of  perfume, 
the  growing  of  flowers,  the  gathering  of  blossoms,  the  type  of 
girls  and  men  that  might  possibly  be  employed,  and  then  he 
hurried  to  the  great  public  library  the  next  day  to  see  if  he 
could  find  a  book  or  magazine  article  which  would  tell  him 
something  about  it.  He  found  this  and  several  articles  on  sugar 

419 


420  THE    "GENIUS" 

growing  and  refining  which  gave  him  new  ideas  in  that  direc- 
tion. He  decided  that  in  each  case  he  would  put  a  beautifully 
designed  bottle  of  perfume  or  a  handsome  package  of  sugar,  say, 
in  the  upper  right  or  lower  left-hand  corner  of  the  design,  and 
then  for  the  rest  show  some  scene  in  the  process  of  its  manu- 
facture. He  began  to  think  of  men  who  could  carry  out  his 
ideas  brilliantly  if  they  were  not  already  on  his  staff,  letterers, 
character  artists,  men  with  a  keen  sense  of  color  combination 
whom  he  might  possibly  hire  cheaply.  He  thought  of  Jerry 
Mathews  of  the  old  Chicago  Globe  days — where  was  he  now? 
— and  Philip  Shotmeyer,  who  would  be  almost  ideal  to  work 
under  his  direction,  for  he  was  a  splendid  letterer,  and  Henry 
Hare,  still  of  the  World,  with  whom  he  had  frequently  talked 
on  the  subject  of  ads  and  posters.  Then  there  was  young  Mor- 
genbau,  who  was  a  most  excellent  character  man,  looking  to 
him  for  some  opportunity,  and  eight  or  ten  men  whose  work 
he  had  admired  in  the  magazines — the  best  known  ones.  He 
decided  first  to  see  what  could  be  done  with  the  staff  that  he 
had,  and  then  to  eliminate  and  fill  in  as  rapidly  as  possible  until 
he  had  a  capable  working  group.  He  had  already  caught  by 
contact  with  Summerfield  some  of  that  eager  personage's  ruth- 
lessness  and  began  to  manifest  it  in  his  own  attitude.  He  was 
most  impressionable  to  things  advantageous  to  himself,  and  this 
chance  to  rise  to  a  higher  level  out  of  the  slough  of  poverty  in 
which  he  had  so  greatly  suffered  nerved  him  to  the  utmost 
effort.  In  two  days  he  had  a  most  impressive  mass  of  material 
to  show  his  prospective  employer,  and  he  returned  to  his  pres- 
ence with  considerable  confidence.  The  latter  looked  over  his 
ideas  carefully  and  then  began  to  warm  to  his  attitude  of  mind. 

"I  should  say!"  he  said  generously,  "there's  some  life  to  this 
stuff.  I  can  see  you  getting  the  five  thousand  a  year  all  right 
if  you  keep  on.  You're  a  little  new,  but  you've  caught  the 
drift."  And  he  sat  down  to  show  him  where  some  improvements 
from  a  practical  point  of  view  could  be  made. 

"Now,  professor,"  he  said  finally  when  he  was  satisfied  that 
Eugene  was  the  man  he  wanted,  "you  and  I  might  as  well  call 
this  a  deal.  It's  pretty  plain  to  me  that  you've  got  something 
that  I  want.  Some  of  these  things  are  fine.  I  don't  know 
how  you're  going  to  make  out  as  a  master  of  men,  but  you 
might  as  well  take  that  desk  out  there  and  we'll  begin  right 
now.  I  wish  you  luck.  I  really  do.  You're  a  live  wire,  I 
think." 

Eugene  thrilled  with  satisfaction.  This  was  the  result  he 
wanted.  No  half-hearted  commendation,  but  enthusiastic  praise. 


THE    "GENIUS"  421 

He  must  have  it.  He  always  felt  that  he  could  command  it. 
People  naturally  ran  after  him.  He  was  getting  used  to  it  by 
now — taking  it  as  a  matter  of  course.  If  he  hadn't  broken  down, 
curse  the  luck,  think  where  he  could  have  been  today.  He 
had  lost  five  years  and  he  was  not  quite  well  yet,  but  thank 
God  he  was  getting  steadily  better,  and  he  would  try  and  hold 
himself  in  check  from  now  on.  The  world  demanded  it. 

He  went  out  with  Summerfield  into  the  art  room  and  was 
there  introduced  by  him  to  the  various  men  employed.  "Mr. 
Davis,  Mr.  Witla;  Mr.  Hart,  Mr.  Witla;  Mr.  Clemens,  Mr. 
Witla,"  so  it  went,  and  the  staff  was  soon  aware  of  who  he 
was.  Summerfield  then  took  him  into  the  next  room  and  intro- 
duced him  to  the  various  heads  of  departments,  the  business 
manager  who  fixed  his  and  his  artists'  salaries,  the  cashier  who 
paid  him,  the  manager  of  the  ad  writing  department,  the  man- 
ager of  the  trade  aid  department,  and  the  head  of  the  steno- 
graphic department,  a  woman.  Eugene  was  a  little  disgusted 
with  what  he  considered  the  crassness  of  these  people.  After 
the  quality  of  the  art  atmosphere  in  which  he  had  moved  these 
people  seemed  to  him  somewhat  raw  and  voracious,  like  fish. 
They  had  no  refinement.  Their  looks  and  manners  were  unduly 
aggressive.  He  resented  particularly  the  fact  that  one  canvasser 
with  whom  he  shook  hands  wore  a  bright  red  tie  and  had  on 
yellow  shoes.  The  insistence  on  department  store  models  for 
suits  and  floor-walker  manners  pained  him. 

"To  hell  writh  such  cattle,"  he  thought,  but  on  the  surface 
he  smiled  and  shook  hands  and  said  how  glad  he  would  be  to 
work  with  them.  Finally  when  all  the  introductions  were  over 
he  went  back  to  his  own  department,  to  take  up  the  work 
which  rushed  through  here  like  a  living  stream,  pellmell.  His 
own  staff  was,  of  course,  much  more  agreeable  to  him.  These 
artists  who  worked  for  him  interested  him,  for  they  were  as  he 
suspected  men  very  much  like  himself,  in  poor  health  probably, 
or  down  on  their  luck  and  compelled  to  do  this.  He  called  for 
his  assistant,  Mr.  Davis,  whom  Summerfield  had  introduced  to 
him  as  such,  and  asked  him  to  let  him  see  how  the  work  stood. 

"Have  you  a  schedule  of  the  work  in  hand?"  he  asked  easily. 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  his  new  attendant. 

"Let  me  see  it." 

The  latter  brought  what  he  called  his  order  book  and  showed 
him  just  how  things  worked.  Each  particular  piece  of  work, 
or  order  as  it  was  called,  was  given  a  number  when  it  came 
in,  the  time  of  its  entry  marked  on  the  slip,  the  name  of  the 
artist  to  whom  it  was  assigned,  the  time  taken  to  execute  it, 


422  THE    "  GENIUS'1 

and  so  forth.  If  one  artist  only  put  two  hours  on  it  and  an- 
other took  it  and  put  four,  this  was  noted.  If  the  first  draw- 
ing was  a  failure  and  a  second  begun,  the  records  would  show 
all,  the  slips  and  errors  of  the  office  as  well  as  its  speed  and  ca- 
pacity. Eugene  perceived  that  he  must  see  to  it  that  his  men 
did  not  make  many  mistakes. 

After  this  order  book  had  been  carefully  inspected  by  him, 
he  rose  and  strolled  about  among  the  men  to  see  how  they  were 
getting  on.  He  wanted  to  familiarize  himself  at  once  with  the 
styles  and  methods  of  his  men.  Some  were  working  on  cloth- 
ing ads,  some  on  designs  illustrative  of  the  beef  industry,  some 
on  a  railroad  travel  series  for  the  street  cars,  and  so  forth. 
Eugene  bent  over  each  one  graciously,  for  he  wanted  to  make 
friends  with  these  people  and  win  their  confidence.  He  knew 
from  experience  how  sensitive  artists  were — how  they  could  be 
bound  by  feelings  of  good  fellowship.  He  had  a  soft,  easy, 
smiling  manner  which  he  hoped  would  smooth  his  way  for 
him.  He  leaned  over  this  man's  shoulder  and  that  asking  what 
the  point  was,  how  long  a  piece  of  work  of  that  character  ought 
to  take,  suggesting  where  a  man  appeared  to  be  in  doubt  what 
he  thought  would  be  advisable.  He  was  not  at  all  certain  of 
himself — this  line  of  work  being  so  new — but  he  was  hopeful 
and  eager.  It  was  a  fine  sensation,  this  being  a  boss,  if  one 
could  only  triumph  at  it.  He  hoped  to  help  these  men  to  help 
themselves ;  to  make  them  make  good  in  ways  which  would  bring 
them  and  him  more  money.  He  wanted  more  money — that 
five  thousand,  no  less. 

"I  think  you  have  the  right  idea  there/'  he  said  to  one  pale, 
anaemic  worker  who  looked  as  though  he  might  have  a  lot  of 
talent. 

The  man,  whose  name  was  Dillon,  responded  to  the  sooth- 
ing, caressing  tone  of  his  voice.  He  liked  Eugene's  appearance, 
though  he  was  not  at  all  disposed  to  pass  favorable  judgment 
as  yet.  It  was  already  rumored  that  he  had  had  an  exceptional 
career  as  an  artist.  Summerfield  had  attended  to  that.  He 
looked  up  and  smiled  and  said,  "Do  JT>U  think  so?" 

"I  certainly  do/'  said  Eugene  cheerfully.  "Try  a  touch  of 
yellow  next  to  that  blue.  See  if  you  don't  like  that." 

The  artist  did  as  requested  and  squinted  at  it  narrowly.  "It 
helps  it  a  lot,  don't  it,"  he  observed,  as  though  it  were  his 
own. 

"It  certainly  does,"  said  Eugene,  "that's  a  good  idea,"  and 
somehow  Dillon  felt  as  though  he  had  thought  of  it.  Inside 
of  twenty  minutes  the  whole  staff  was  agreeing  with  itself  that 


THE    "GENIUS"  423 

he  was  a  nice  man  to  all  outward  appearances  and  that  he  might 
make  good.  He  appeared  to  be  so  sure.  They  little  knew  how 
perturbed  he  was  inwardly,  how  anxious  he  was  to  get  all  the 
threads  of  this  in  his  hand  and  to  see  that  everything  came  to 
an  ideal  fruition.  He  dreaded  the  hour  when  he  might  have 
something  to  contend  with  which  was  not  quite  right. 

Days  passed  at  this  new  work  and  then  weeks,  and  by 
degrees  he  grew  moderately  sure  of  himself  and  comparatively 
easy  in  his  seat,  though  he  realized  that  he  had  not  stepped  into 
a  bed  of  roses.  He  found  this  a  most  tempestuous  office  to  work 
in,  for  Summerfield  was,  as  he  expressed  it,  "on  the  job"  early 
and  late,  and  tireless  in  his  insistence  and  enthusiasm.  He  came 
down  from  his  residence  in  the  upper  portion  of  the  city  at 
eight-fifty  in  the  morning  and  remained  almost  invariably  until 
six-thirty  and  seven  and  not  infrequently  until  eight  and  nine 
in  the  evening.  He  had  the  inconsiderate  habit  of  keeping  such 
of  his  staff  as  happened  to  be  working  upon  the  thing  in  which 
he  was  interested  until  all  hours  of  the  night;  sometimes  trans- 
ferring his  deliberations  to  his  own  home  and  that  without 
dinner  or  the  proffer  of  it  to  those  whom  he  made  to  work. 
He  would  talk  advertising  with  one  big  merchant  or  another 
until  it  was  time  to  go  home,  and  would  then  call  in  the  wreary 
members  of  his  staff  before  they  had  time  to  escape  and  begin 
a  long  and  important  discussion  of  something  he  wanted  done. 
At  times,  when  anything  went  wrong,  he  would  fly  into  an 
insane  fury,  rave  and  curse  and  finally,  perhaps,  discharge  the 
one  who  was  really  not  to  blame.  There  were  no  end  of 
labored  and  irritating  conferences  in  which  hard  words  and  sar- 
castic references  would  fly  about,  for  he  had  no  respect  for  the 
ability  or  personality  of  anyone  who  worked  for  him.  They 
were  all  more  or  less  machines  in  his  estimation  and  rather 
poorly  constructed  ones  at  that.  Their  ideas  were  not  good 
enough  unless  for  the  time  being  they  happened  to  be  new,  or 
as  in  Eugene's  case  displaying  pronounced  talent. 

He  could  not  fathom  Eugene  so  readily,  for  he  had  never  met 
anyone  of  his  kind.  He  was  looking  closely  in  his  case,  as  he 
was  in  that  of  all  the  others,  to  see  if  he  could  not  find  some 
weakness  in  his  ideas.  He  had  a  gleaming,  insistent,  almost 
demoniac  eye,  a  habit  of  chewing  incessantly  and  even  violently 
the  stub  end  of  a  cigar,  the  habit  of  twitching,  getting  up  and 
walking  about,  stirring  things  on  his  desk,  doing  anything  and 
everything  to  .give  his  restless,  generative  energy  a  chance  to 
escape. 

"Now,  professor,"  he  would  say  when  Eugene  came  in  and 


424  THE    "GENIUS" 

seated  himself  quietly  and  unobtrusively  in  some  corner,  "we 
have  a  very  difficult  thing  here  to  solve  today.  I  want  to  know 
what  you  think  could  be  done  in  such  and  such  a  case,"  describ- 
ing a  particular  condition. 

Eugene  would  brace  himself  up  and  begin  to  consider,  but 
rumination  was  not  what  Summerfield  wanted  from  anyone. 

"Well,  professor!  well!  well!"  he  would  exclaim. 

Eugene  would  stir  irritably.  This  was  so  embarrassing — in  a 
way  so  degrading  to  him. 

"Come  to  life,  professor,"  Summerfield  would  go  on.  He 
seemed  to  have  concluded  long  before  that  the  gad  was  the 
most  effective  commercial  weapon. 

Eugene  would  then  make  some  polite  suggestion,  wishing  in- 
stead that  he  could  tell  him  to  go  to  the  devil,  but  that  was 
not  the  end  of  it.  Before  all  the  old  writers,  canvassers,  trade 
aid  men — sometimes  one  or  two  of  his  own  artists  who  might 
be  working  upon  the  particular  task  in  question,  he  would  ex- 
claim: "Lord!  what  a  poor  suggestion!"  or  "can't  you  do  any 
better  than  that,  professor?"  or  "good  heavens,  I  have  three 
or  four  ideas  better  than  that  myself."  The  best  he  would 
ever  say  in  conference  was,  "Well,  there  may  be  something  in 
that,"  though  privately,  afterwards,  he  might  possibly  express 
great  pleasure.  Past  achievements  counted  for  nothing;  that 
was  so  plain.  One  might  bring  in  gold  and  silver  all  day 
long;  the  next  day  there  must  be  more  gold  and  silver  and  in 
larger  quantities.  There  was  no  end  to  the  man's  appetite. 
There  was  no  limit  to  the  speed  at  which  he  wished  to  drive 
his  men.  There  was  no  limit  to  the  venomous  commercial  idea 
as  an  idea.  Summerfield  set  an  example  of  nagging  and  irritat- 
ing insistence,  and  he  urged  all  his  employees  to  the  same  policy. 
The  result  was  a  bear-garden,  a  den  of  prize-fighters,  liars,  cut- 
throats and  thieves  in  which  every  man  was  for  himself  openly 
and  avowedly  and  the  devil  take  the  hindmost. 


CHAPTER  XXXV 

STILL  time  went  by,  and  although  things  did  not  improve 
very  much  in  his  office  over  the  standards  which  he  saw 
prevailing  when  he  came  there,  he  was  obviously  getting  things 
much  better  arranged  in  his  private  life.  In  the  first  place 
Angela's  attitude  was  getting  much  better.  The  old  agony 
which  had  possessed  her  in  the  days  when  he  was  acting  so  badly 
had  modified  as  day  by  day  she  saw  him  working  and  con- 
ducting himself  with  reasonable  circumspection.  She  did  not 
trust  him  as  yet.  She  was  not  sure  that  he  had  utterly  broken  with 
Carlotta  Wilson  (she  had  never  found  out  who  his  paramour 
was),  but  all  the  evidence  seemed  to  attest  it.  There  was  a 
telephone  down  stairs  in  a  drug  store  by  which,  during  his  days 
on  the  World,  Angela  would  call  him  up  at  any  time,  and  when- 
ever she  had  called  him  up  he  was  always  in  the  office.  He 
seemed  to  have  plenty  of  time  to  take  her  to  the  theatre  if  she 
wished  to  go,  and  to  have  no  especial  desire  to  avoid  her  com- 
pany. He  had  once  told  her  frankly  that  he  did  not  propose  to 
pretend  to  love  her  any  more,  though  he  did  care  for  her,  and 
this  frightened  her.  In  spite  of  her  wrath  and  suffering  she 
cared  for  him,  and  she  believed  that  he  still  sympathized  with 
her  and  might  come  to  care  for  her  again — that  he  ought  to. 
She  decided  to  play  the  role  of  the  affectionate  wife  whether 
it  was  true  or  not,  and  to  hug  and  kiss  him  and  fuss  over 
him  if  he  would  let  her,  just  as  though  nothing  had  hap- 
pened. Eugene  did  not  understand  this.  He  did  not  see  how 
Angela  could  still  love  him.  He  thought  she  must  hate  him, 
having  such  just  grounds,  for  having  by  dint  of  hard  work  and 
absence  come  out  of  his  vast  excitement  about  Carlotta  he  was 
beginning  to  feel  that  he  had  done  her  a  terrific  injustice  and 
to  wish  to  make  amends.  He  did  not  want  to  love  her,  he 
did  not  feel  that  he  could,  but  he  was  perfectly  willing  to 
behave  himself,  to  try  to  earn  a  good  living,  to  take  her  to 
theatre  and  opera  as  opportunity  permitted,  and  to  build  up 
and  renew  a  social  relationship  with  others  which  should  act 
as  a  substitute  for  love.  He  was  beginning  to  think  that  there 
was  no  honest  or  happy  solution  to  any  affair  of  the  heart 
in  the  world.  Most  people  so  far  as  he  could  see  were  unhap- 
pily married.  It  seemed  to  be  the  lot  of  mankind  to  make  mis- 
takes in  its  matrimonial  selections.  He  was  probably  no  more 

425 


426  THE    "GENIUS" 

unhappy  than  many  others.  Let  the  world  wag  as  it  would  for 
a  time.  He  would  try  to  make  some  money  now,  and  restore 
himself  in  the  eyes  of  the  world.  Later,  life  might  bring  him 
something — who  could  tell? 

In  the  next  place  their  financial  condition,  even  before  he  left 
the  World,  was  so  much  better  than  it  had  been.  By  dint  of 
saving  and  scraping,  refusing  to  increase  their  expenses  more 
than  was  absolutely  necessary,  Angela  had  succeeded  by  the 
time  he  left  the  World  in  laying  by  over  one  thousand  dollars, 
and  since  then  it  had  gone  up  to  three  thousand.  They 
had  relaxed  sufficiently  so  that  now  they  were  wearing  rea- 
sonably good  clothes,  were  going  out  and  receiving  company 
regularly.  It  was  not  possible  in  their  little  apartment  which 
they  still  occupied  to  entertain  more  than  three  or  four  at  the 
outside,  and  two  was  all  that  Angela  ever  cared  to  consider  as 
either  pleasurable  or  comfortable ;  but  they  entertained  this  num- 
ber frequently.  There  were  some  slight  recoveries  of  friendship 
and  of  the  old  life — Hudson  Dula,  Jerry  Mathews,  who  had 
moved  to  Newark;  William  McConnell,  Philip  Shotmeyer. 
MacHugh  and  Smite  were  away,  one  painting  in  Nova  Scotia, 
the  other  working  in  Chicago.  As  for  the  old  art  crowd,  social- 
ists and  radicals  included,  Eugene  attempted  to  avoid  them  as 
much  as  possible.  He  knew  nothing  of  the  present  whereabouts 
of  Miriam  Finch  and  Norma  Whitmore.  Of  Christina  Chan- 
ning  he  heard  much,  for  she  was  singing  in  Grand  Opera,  her 
pictures  displayed  in  the  paper  and  upon  the  billboards.  There 
were  many  new  friends,  principally  young  newspaper  artists 
like  Adolph  Morgenbau,  who  took  to  Eugene  and  were  in  a 
sense  his  disciples. 

Angela's  relations  showed  up  from  time  to  time,  among  them 
David  Blue,  now  a  sub-lieutenant  in  the  army,  with  all  the  army 
officer's  pride  of  place  and  station.  There  were  women  friends 
of  Angela's  for  whom  Eugene  cared  little — Mrs.  Desmas,  the 
wife  of  the  furniture  manufacturer  at  Riverwood,  from  whom 
they  had  rented  their  four  rooms  there;  Mrs.  Wertheim,  the 
wife  of  the  multimillionaire,  to  whom  M.  Charles  had  intro- 
duced them ;  Mrs.  Link,  the  wife  of  the  West  Point  army  cap- 
tain who  had  come  to  the  old  Washington  Square  studio  with 
Marietta  and  who  was  now  stationed  at  Fort  Hamilton  in 
Brooklyn;  and  a  Mrs.  Juergens,  living  in  a  neighboring  apart- 
ment. As  long  as  they  were  very  poor,  Angela  was 
very  careful  how  she  revived  acquaintances;  but  when  they 
began  to  have  a  little  money  she  decided  that  she  might  indulge 
her  predilection  and  so  make  life  less  lonesome  for  herself.  She 


THE    "GENIUS'  427 

had  always  been  anxious  to  build  up  solid  social  connections  for 
Eugene,  but  as  yet  she  did  not  see  how  it  was  to  be  done. 

When  Eugene's  new  connection  with  the  Summerfield  com- 
pany was  consummated,  Angela  was  greatly  astonished  and  rather 
delighted  to  think  that  if  he  had  to  work  in  this  practical  field 
for  long  it  wras  to  be  under  such  comforting  auspices — that  is,  as 
a  superior  and  not  as  an  underling.  Long  ago  she  had  come  to 
feel  that  Eugene  would  never  make  any  money  in  a  commercial 
way.  To  see  him  mounting  in  this  manner  was  curious,  but 
not  wholly  reassuring.  They  must  save  money;  that  was  her 
one  cry.  They  had  to  move  soon,  that  wras  very  plain,  but 
they  mustn't  spend  any  more  than  they  had  to.  She  delayed 
until  the  attitude  of  Summerfield,  upon  an  accidental  visit  to 
their  flat,  made  it  commercially  advisable. 

Summerfield  was  a  great  admirer  of  Eugene's  artistic  ability. 
He  had  never  seen  any  of  his  pictures,  but  he  was  rather  keen  to, 
and  once  when  Eugene  told  him  that  they  were  still  on  display, 
one  or  two  of  them  at  Pottle  Freres,  Jacob  Bergman's  and  Henry 
LaRue's,  he  decided  to  visit  these  places,  but  put  it  off.  One 
night  when  he  was  riding  uptown  on  the  L  road  with  Eugene 
he  decided  because  he  was  in  a  vagrom  mood  to  accompany  him 
home  and  see  his  pictures  there.  Eugene  did  not  want  this.  He 
was  chagrined  to  be  compelled  to  take  him  into  their  very  little 
apartment,  but  there  was  apparently  no  way  of  escaping  it.  He 
tried  to  persuade  him  to  visit  Pottle  Freres  instead,  where  one 
picture  was  still  on  view,  but  Summerfield  would  none  of  that. 

"I  don't  like  you  to  see  this  place,"  finally  he  said  apolo- 
getically, as  they  were  going  up  the  steps  of  the  five-story  apart- 
ment house.  "We  are  going  to  get  out  of  here  pretty  soon.  I 
came  here  when  I  worked  on  the  road." 

Summerfield  looked  about  at  the  poor  neighborhood,  the  inlet 
of  a  canal  some  two  blocks  east  where  a  series  of  black  coal 
pockets  were  and  to  the  north  where  there  was  flat  open  country 
and  a  railroad  yard. 

"Why,  that's  all  right,"  he  said,  in  his  direct,  practical  way. 
"It  doesn't  make  any  difference  to  me.  It  does  to  you,  though, 
Witla.  You  know,  I  believe  in  spending  money,  everybody 
spending  money.  Nobody  gets  anywhere  by  saving  anything. 
Pay  out!  Pay  out — that's  the  idea.  I  found  that  out  for  my- 
self long  ago.  You'd  better  move  when  you  get  a  chance  soon 
and  surround  yourself  with  clever  people." 

Eugene  considered  this  the  easy  talk  of  a  man  who  was  suc- 
cessful and  lucky,  but  he  still  thought  there  was  much  in  it. 
Summerfield  came  in  and  viewed  the  pictures.  He  liked  them, 


428  THE    "GENIUS' 

and  he  liked  Angela,  though  he  wondered  how  Eugene  ever  came 
to  marry  her.  She  was  such  a  quiet  little  home  body.  Eugene 
looked  more  like  a  Bohemian  or  a  club  man  now  that  he  had 
been  worked  upon  by  Summerfield.  The  soft  hat  had  long 
since  been  discarded  for  a  stiff  derby,  and  Eugene's  clothes  were 
of  the  most  practical  business  type  he  could  find.  He  looked 
more  like  a  young  merchant  than  an  artist.  Summerfield  invited 
them  over  to  dinner  at  his  house,  refusing  to  stay  to  dinner  here, 
and  went  his  way. 

Before  long,  because  of  his  advice  they  moved.  They  had 
practically  four  thousand  by  now,  and  because  of  his  salary 
Angela  figured  that  they  could  increase  their  living  expenses  to 
say  two  thousand  five  hundred  or  even  three  thousand  dollars. 
She  wanted  Eugene  to  save  two  thousand  each  year  against  the 
day  when  he  should  decide  to  return  to  art.  They  sought  about 
together  Saturday  afternoons  and  Sundays  and  finally  found  a 
charming  apartment  in  Central  Park  West  overlooking  the  park, 
where  they  thought  they  could  live  and  entertain  beautifully. 
It  had  a  large  dining-room  and  living-room  which  when  the 
table  was  cleared  away  formed  one  great  room.  There  was  a 
handsomely  equipped  bathroom,  a  nice  kitchen  with  ample  pantry, 
three  bedrooms,  one  of  which  Angela  turned  into  a  sewing  room, 
and  a  square  hall  or  entry  which  answered  as  a  temporary  re- 
ception room.  There  were  plenty  of  closets,  gas  and  electricity, 
elevator  service  with  nicely  uniformed  elevator  men,  and  a  house 
telephone.  It  was  very  different  from  their  last  place,  where 
they  only  had  a  long  dark  hall,  stairways  to  climb,  gas  only, 
and  no  phone.  The  neighborhood,  too,  was  so  much  better. 
Here  were  automobiles  and  people  walking  in  the  park  or  prom- 
enading on  a  Sunday  afternoon,  and  obsequious  consideration  or 
polite  indifference  to  your  affairs  from  everyone  who  had  any- 
thing to  do  with  you. 

"Well,  the  tide  is  certainly  turning,"  said  Eugene,  as  they 
entered  it  the  first  day. 

He  had  the  apartment  redecorated  in  white  and  delft-blue 
and  dark  blue,  getting  a  set  of  library  and  dining-room  furni- 
ture in  imitation  rosewood.  He  bought  a  few  choice  pictures 
which  he  had  seen  at  various  exhibitions  to  mix  with  his  own, 
and  set  a  cut-glass  bowl  in  the  ceiling  where  formerly  the  com- 
monplace chandelier  had  been.  There  were  books  enough,  ac- 
cumulated during  a  period  of  years,  to  fill  the  attractive  white 
bookcase  with  its  lead-paned  doors.  Attractive  sets  of  bedroom 
furniture  in  bird's-eye  maple  and  white  enamel  were  secured, 
and  the  whole  apartment  given  a  very  cosy  and  tasteful  appear- 


THE    "GENIUS'  429 

ance.  A  piano  was  purchased  outright  and  dinner  and  breakfast 
sets  of  Haviland  china.  There  were  many  other  dainty  acces- 
sories, such  as  rugs,  curtains,  portieres,  and  so  forth,  the  hanging 
of  which  Angela  supervised.  Here  they  settled  down  to  a  com- 
paratively new  and  attractive  life. 

Angela  had  never  really  forgiven  him  his  indiscretions  of  the 
past,  his  radical  brutality  in  the  last  instance,  but  she  was  not 
holding  them  up  insistently  against  him.  There  were  occasional 
scenes  even  yet,  the  echoes  of  a  far-off  storm;  but  as  long  as 
they  were  making  money  and  friends  were  beginning  to  come 
back  she  did  not  propose  to  quarrel.  Eugene  was  very  consid- 
erate. He  was  very,  very  hard-working.  Why  should  she  nag 
him  ?  He  would  sit  by  a  window  overlooking  the  park  at  night 
and  toil  over  his  sketches  and  ideas  until  midnight.  He  was  up 
and  dressed  by  seven,  down  to  his  office  by  eight-thirty,  out  to 
lunch  at  one  or  later,  and  only  back  home  at  eight  or  nine  o'clock 
at  night.  Sometimes  Angela  would  be  cross  with  him  for  this, 
sometimes  rail  at  Mr.  Summerfield  for  an  inhuman  brute,  but 
seeing  that  the  apartment  was  so  lovely  and  that  Eugene  was 
getting  along  so  well,  how  could  she  quarrel?  It  was  for  her 
benefit  as  much  as  for  his  that  he  appeared  to  be  working.  He 
did  not  think  about  spending  money.  He  did  not  seem  to  care. 
He  would  work,  work,  work,  until  she  actually  felt  sorry  for 
him. 

"Certainly  Mr.  Summerfield  ought  to  like  you,"  she  said  to 
him  one  day,  half  in  compliment,  half  in  a  rage  at  a  man  who 
would  exact  so  much  from  him.  "You're  valuable  enough  to 
him.  I  never  saw  a  man  who  could  work  like  you  can.  Don't 
you  ever  want  to  stop?" 

"Don't  bother  about  me,  Angelface,"  he  said.  "I  have  to  do 
it.  I  don't  mind.  It's  better  than  walking  the  streets  and  won- 
dering how  I'm  going  to  get  along" — and  he  fell  to  his  ideas 
again. 

Angela  shook  her  head.  Poor  Eugene!  If  ever  a  man  de- 
served success  for  working,  he  certainly  did.  And  he  was  really 
getting  nice  again — getting  conventional.  Perhaps  it  was  be- 
cause he  was  getting  a  little  older.  It  might  turn  out  that  he 
would  become  a  splendid  man,  after  all. 


CHAPTER  XXXVI 

came  a  time,  however,  when  all  this  excitement  and 
X  wrath  and  quarreling  began  to  unnerve  Eugene  and  to 
make  him  feel  that  he  could  not  indefinitely  stand  the  strain. 
After  all,  his  was  the  artistic  temperament,  not  that  of  a  com- 
mercial or  financial  genius.  He  was  too  nervous  and  restless. 
For  one  thing  he  was  first  astonished,  then  amused,  then  embit- 
tered by  the  continual  travesty  on  justice,  truth,  beauty,  sym- 
pathy, which  he  saw  enacted  before  his  eyes.  Life  stripped  of  its 
illusion  and  its  seeming  becomes  a  rather  deadly  thing  to  con- 
template. Because  of  the  ruthless,  insistent,  inconsiderate  atti- 
tude of  this  employer,  all  the  employees  of  this  place  followed 
his  example,  and  there  was  neither  kindness  nor  courtesy — nor 
even  raw  justice  anywhere.  Eugene  was  compelled  to  see  him- 
self looked  upon  from  the  beginning,  not  so  much  by  his  own 
staff  as  by  the  other  employees  of  the  company,  as  a  man  who 
could  not  last  long.  He  was  disliked  forsooth  because  Sum- 
merfield  displayed  some  liking  for  him,  and  because  his  manners 
did  not  coincide  exactly  with  the  prevailing  standard  of  the 
office.  Summerfield  did  not  intend  to  allow  his  interest  in  Eu- 
gene to  infringe  in  any  way  upon  his  commercial  exactions,  but 
this  was  not  enough  to  save  or  aid  Eugene  in  any  way.  The 
others  disliked  him,  some  because  he  was  a  true  artist  to  begin 
with,  because  of  his  rather  distant  air,  and  because  in  spite  of 
himself  he  could  not  take  them  all  as  seriously  as  he  should. 

Most  of  them  seemed  little  mannikins  to  him — little  second, 
third,  and  fourth  editions  or  copies  of  Summerfield.  They  all 
copied  that  worthy's  insistent  air.  They  all  attempted  to  imi- 
tate his  briskness.  Like  children,  they  were  inclined  to  try  to 
imitate  his  bitter  persiflage  and  be  smart;  and  they  demanded, 

!as  he  said  they  should,  the  last  ounce  of  consideration  and  duty 
from  their  neighbors.  Eugene  was  too  much  of  a  philosopher  not 
to  take  much  of  this  with  a  grain  of  salt,  but  after  all  his  posi- 
tion depended  on  his  activity  and  his  ability  to  get  results,  and 
it  was  a  pity,  he  thought,  that  he  could  expect  neither  courtesy 
nor  favor  from  anyone.  Departmental  chiefs  stormed  his  room 
daily,  demanding  this,  that,  and  the  other  work  immediately. 
Artists  complained  that  they  were  not  getting  enough  pay,  the 
business  manager  railed  because  expenses  were  not  kept  low, 
saying  that  Eugene  might  be  an  improvement  in  the  matter  of 

430 


THE    "GENIUS'  431 

the  quality  of  the  results  obtained  and  the  speed  of  execution, 
but  that  he  was  lavish  in  his  expenditure.  Others  cursed  openly 
in  his  presence  at  times,  and  about  him  to  his  employer,  alleging 
that  the  execution  of  certain  ideas  was  rotten,  or  that  certain 
work  was  delayed,  or  that  he  was  slow  or  discourteous.  There 
was  little  in  these  things,  as  Summerfield  well  knew  from  watch- 
ing Eugene,  but  he  was  too  much  a  lover  of  quarrels  and  excite- 
ment as  being  productive  of  the  best  results  in  the  long  run  to 
wish  to  interfere.  Eugene  was  soon  accused  of  delaying  work 
generally,  of  having  incompetent  men  (which  was  true),  of 
being  slow,  of  being  an  artistic  snob.  He  stood  it  all  calmly 
because  of  his  recent  experience  with  poverty,  but  he  was  deter- 
mined to  fight  ultimately.  He  was  no  longer,  or  at  least  not 
going  to  be,  he  thought,  the  ambling,  cowardly,  dreaming  Witla 
he  had  been.  He  was  going  to  stand  up,  and  he  did  begin  to. 

"Remember,  you  are  the  last  word  here,  Witla, "  Summerfield 
had  told  him  on  one  occasion.  "If  anything  goes  wrong  here, 
you're  to  blame.  Don't  make  any  mistakes.  Don't  let  anyone 
accuse  you  falsely.  Don't  run  to  me.  I  won't  help  you." 

It  was  such  a  ruthless  attitude  that  it  shocked  Eugene  into 
an  attitude  of  defiance.  In  time  he  thought  he  had  become  a 
hardened  and  a  changed  man — aggressive,  contentious,  bitter. 

"They  can  all  go  to  hell!'1  he  said  one  day  to  Summerfield, 
after  a  terrific  row  about  some  delayed  pictures,  in  which  one 
man  who  was  animated  by  personal  animosity  more  than  any- 
thing else  had  said  hard  things  about  him.  "The  thing  that's 
been  stated  here  isn't  so.  My  work  is  up  to  and  beyond  the 
mark.  This  individual  here" — pointing  to  the  man  in  question — 
"simply  doesn't  like  me.  The  next  time  he  comes  into  my  room 
nosing  about  I'll  throw  him  out.  He's  a  damned  fakir,  and 
you  know  it.  He  lied  here  today,  and  you  know  that." 

"Good  for  you,  Witla!"  exclaimed  Summerfield  joyously. 
The  idea  of  a  fighting  attitude  on  Eugene's  part  pleased  him. 
"You're  coming  to  life.  You'll  get  somewhere  now.  You've 
got  the  ideas,  but  if  you  let  these  wolves  run  over  you  they'll 
do  it,  and  they'll  eat  you.  I  can't  help  it.  They're  all  no  good. 
I  wouldn't  trust  a  single  God-damned  man  in  the  place!" 

So  it  went.  Eugene  smiled.  Could  he  ever  get  used  to  such 
a  life?  Could  he  ever  learn  to  live  with  such  cheap,  inconsid- 
erate, indecent  little  pups?  Summerfield  might  like  them,  but 
he  didn't.  This  might  be  a  marvellous  business  policy,  but  he 
couldn't  see  it.  Somehow  it  seemed  to  reflect  the  mental  atti- 
tude and  temperament  of  Mr.  Daniel  C.  Summerfield  and  noth- 
ing more.  Human  nature  ought  to  be  better  than  that. 


432  THE    "GENIUS'1 

It  is  curious  how  fortune  sometimes  binds  up  the  wounds  of 
the  past,  covers  over  the  broken  places  as  with  clinging  vines, 
gives  to  the  miseries  and  mental  wearinesses  of  life  a  look  of 
sweetness  and  comfort.  An  illusion  of  perfect  joy  is  sometimes 
created  where  still,  underneath,  are  cracks  and  scars.  Here 
were  Angela  and  Eugene  living  together  now,  beginning  to  be 
visited  by  first  one  and  then  the  other  of  those  they  had  known  in 
the  past,  seemingly  as  happy  as  though  no  storm  had  ever  beset  the 
calm  of  their  present  sailing.  Eugene,  despite  all  his  woes,  was 
interested  in  this  work.  He  liked  to  think  of  himself  as  the 
captain  of  a  score  of  men,  having  a  handsome  office  desk,  being 
hailed  as  chief  by  obsequious  subordinates  and  invited  here  and 
there  by  Summerfield,  who  still  liked  him.  The  work  was  hard, 
but  it  was  so  much  more  profitable  than  anything  he  had  ever 
had  before.  Angela  was  happier,  too,  he  thought,  than  she  had 
been  in  a  long  time,  for  she  did  not  need  to  worry  about  money 
and  his  prospects  were  broadening.  Friends  were  coming  back 
to  them  in  a  steady  stream,  and  they  were  creating  new  ones. 
It  was  possible  to  go  to  a  seaside  resort  occasionally,  winter  or 
summer,  or  to  entertain  three  or  four  friends  at  dinner.  Angela 
had  a  maid.  The  meals  were  served  with  considerable  distinc- 
tion under  her  supervision.  She  was  flattered  to  hear  nice  things 
said  about  her  husband  in  her  presence,  for  it  was  whispered 
abroad  in  art  circles  with  which  they  were  now  slightly  in 
touch  again  that  half  the  effectiveness  of  the  Summerfield  ads 
was  due  to  Eugene's  talent.  It  wras  no  shame  for  him  to  come 
out  now  and  say  where  he  was,  for  he  was  getting  a  good  salary 
and  was  a  department  chief.  He,  or  rather  the  house  through 
him,  had  made  several  great  hits,  issuing  series  of  ads  which  at- 
tracted the  attention  of  the  public  generally  to  the  products 
which  they  advertised.  Experts  in  the  advertising  world  first, 
and  then  later  the  public  generally,  were  beginning  to  wonder 
who  it  was  that  was  primarily  responsible  for  the  hits. 

The  Summerfield  company  had  not  had  them  during  the 
previous  six  years  of  its  history.  There  were  too  many  of  them 
coming  close  together  not  to  make  a  new  era  in  the  history  of 
the  house.  Summerfield,  it  was  understood  about  the  office,  was 
becoming  a  little  jealous  of  Eugene,  for  he  could  not  brook  the 
presence  of  a  man  with  a  reputation;  and  Eugene,  with  his  five 
thousand  dollars  in  cash  in  two  savings  banks,  with  practically 
two  thousand  five  hundred  dollars'  worth  of  tasteful  furniture 
in  his  apartment  and  with  a  ten-thousand  life-insurance  policy 
in  favor  of  Angela,  was  carrying  himself  with  quite  an  air.  He 
was  not  feeling  so  anxious  about  his  future. 


THE    "GENIUS"  433 

Angela  noted  it.  Summerfield  also.  The  latter  felt  that 
Eugene  was  beginning  to  show  his  artistic  superiority  in  a  way 
which  was  not  entirely  pleasant.  He  was  coming  to  have  a 
direct,  insistent,  sometimes  dictatorial  manner.  All  the  driving 
Summerfield  had  done  had  not  succeeded  in  breaking  his  spirit. 
Instead,  it  had  developed  him.  From  a  lean,  pale,  artistic  soul, 
wearing  a  soft  hat,  he  had  straightened  up  and  filled  out  until 
now  he  looked  more  like  a  business  man  than  an  artist,  with  a 
derby  hat,  clothes  of  the  latest  cut,  a  ring  of  oriental  design  on 
his  middle  finger,  and  pins  and  ties  which  reflected  the  prevail- 
ing modes. 

Eugene's  attitude  had  not  as  yet  changed  completely,  but  it  was 
changing.  He  was  not  nearly  so  fearsome  as  he  had  been.  He  was 
beginning  to  see  that  he  had  talents  in  more  directions  than  one, 
and  to  have  the  confidence  of  this  fact.  Five  thousand  dollars 
in  cash,  with  two  or  three  hundred  dollars  being  added  monthly, 
and  interest  at  four  per  cent,  being  paid  upon  it,  gave  him  a 
reserve  of  self-confidence.  He  began  to  joke  Summerfield  him- 
self, for  he  began  to  realize  that  other  advertising  concerns  might 
be  glad  to  have  him.  Word  had  been  brought  to  him  once  that 
the  Alfred  Cookman  Company,  of  which  Summerfield  was  a 
graduate,  was  considering  making  him  an  offer,  and  the  Twine- 
Campbell  Company,  the  largest  in  the  field,  was  also  interested 
in  what  he  was  doing.  His  own  artists,  mostly  faithful  because 
he  had  sought  to  pay  them  well  and  to  help  them  succeed,  had 
spread  his  fame  greatly.  According  to  them,  he  was  the  sole 
cause  of  all  the  recent  successes  which  had  come  to  the  house, 
which  was  not  true  at  all. 

A  number,  perhaps  the  majority,  of  things  recently  had  started 
with  him;  but  they  had  been  amplified  by  Summerfield,  worked 
over  by  the  ad-writing  department,  revised  by  the  advertisers 
themselves,  and  so  on  and  so  forth,  until  notable  changes  had 
been  effected  and  success  achieved.  There  was  no  doubt  that 
Eugene  was  directly  responsible  for  a  share  of  this.  His  pres- 
ence was  inspiring,  constructive.  He  keyed  up  the  whole  tone 
of  the  Summerfield  Company  merely  by  being  there;  but  he  was 
not  all  there  was  to  it  by  many  a  long  step.  He  realized  this 
himself. 

He  was  not  at  all  offensively  egotistic — simply  surer,  calmer, 
more  genial,  less  easily  ruffled;  but  even  this  was  too  much. 
Summerfield  wanted  a  frightened  man,  and  seeing  that  Eugene 
might  be  getting  strong  enough  to  slip  away  from  him,  he  began 
to  think  how  he  should  either  circumvent  his  possible  sudden 
flight,  or  discredit  his  fame,  so  that  if  he  did  leave  he  would 


434  THE    "GENIUS" 

gain  nothing  by  it.  Neither  of  them  was  directly  manifesting 
any  ill-will  or  indicating  his  true  feelings,  but  such  was  the  situ- 
ation just  the  same.  The  things  which  Summerfield  thought  he 
might  do  were  not  easy  to  do  under  any  circumstances.  It  was 
particularly  hard  in  Eugene's  case.  The  man  was  beginning  to 
have  an  air.  People  liked  him.  Advertisers  who  met  him,  the 
big  manufacturers,  took  note  of  him.  They  did  not  understand 
him  as  a  trade  figure,  but  thought  he  must  have  real  force.  One 
man — a  great  real  estate  plunger  in  New  York,  who  saw  him 
once  in  Summerfield's  office — spoke  to  the  latter  about  him. 

"That's  a  most  interesting  man  you  have  there,  that  man 
Witla,"  he  said,  when  they  were  out  to  lunch  together.  "Where 
does  he  come  from?" 

"Oh,  the  West  somewhere!"  replied  Summerfield  evasively. 
"I  don't  know.  I've  had  so  many  art  directors  I  don't  pay 
much  attention  to  them." 

Winfield  (ex-Senator  Kenyon  C.  Winfield,  of  Brooklyn) 
perceived  a  slight  undercurrent  of  opposition  and  belittling. 
"He  looks  like  a  bright  fellow,"  he  said,  intending  to  drop  the 
subject. 

"He  is,  he  is,"  returned  Summerfield;  "but  like  all  artists, 
he's  flighty.  They're  the  most  unstable  people  in  the  world. 
You  can't  depend  upon  them.  Good  for  one  idea  today — worth 
nothing  tomorrow — I  have  to  handle  them  like  a  lot  of  children. 
The  weather  sometimes  makes  all  the  difference  in  the  world." 

Winfield  fancied  this  was  true.  Artists  generally  were  worth 
nothing  in  business.  Still,  he  remembered  Eugene  pleasantly. 

As  Summerfield  talked  here,  so  was  it  in  the  office  and  else- 
where. He  began  to  say  in  the  office  and  out  that  Eugene  was 
really  not  doing  as  well  as  he  might,  and  that  in  all  likelihood 
he  would  have  to  drop  him.  It  was  sad ;  but  all  directors,  even 
the  best  of  them,  had  their  little  day  of  ability  and  usefulness, 
and  then  ran  to  seed.  He  did  not  see  why  it  was  that  all  these 
directors  failed  so,  but  they  did.  They  never  really  made  good 
in  the  company.  By  this  method,  his  own  undiminished  ability 
was  made  to  stand  out  free  and  clear,  and  Eugene  was  not  able 
to  appear  as  important.  No  one  who  knew  anything  about  Eu- 
gene, however,  at  this  time  believed  this;  but  they  did  believe — 
in  the  office — that  he  might  lose  his  position.  He  was  too  bright 
— too  much  of  a  leader.  They  felt  that  this  condition  could  not 
continue  in  a  one-man  concern;  and  this  made  the  work  harder, 
for  it  bred  disloyalty  in  certain  quarters.  Some  of  his  men  were 
disposed  to  counsel  with  the  enemy. 

But  as  time  passed  and  in  spite  of  the  change  of  attitude  which 


THE    "GENIUS"  435 

was  coming  over  Summerfield,  Eugene  became  even  stronger  in 
his  own  self-esteem.  He  was  not  getting  vainglorious  as  yet — 
merely  sure.  Because  of  his  art  work  his  art  connections  had 
revived  considerably,  and  he  had  heard  again  from  such  men 
as  Louis  Deesa,  M.  Charles,  Luke  Severas,  and  others  who  now 
knew  where  he  was  and  wondered  why  he  did  not  come  back 
to  painting  proper.  M.  Charles  was  disgusted.  "A  great  er- 
ror," he  said.  He  always  spoke  of  him  to  others  as  a  great  loss 
to  art.  Strange  to  relate,  one  of  his  pictures  was  sold  the  spring 
following  his  entry  into  the  Summerfield  Company,  and  another 
the  following  winter.  Each  netted  him  two  hundred  and  fifty 
dollars,  Pottle  Freres  being  the  agents  in  one  case,  Jacob  Berg- 
man in  the  other.  These  sales  with  their  consequent  calls  for 
additional  canvases  to  show,  cheered  him  greatly.  He  felt  sat- 
isfied now  that  if  anything  happened  to  him  he  could  go  back 
to  his  art  and  that  he  could  make  a  living,  anyhow. 

There  came  a  time  when  he  was  sent  for  by  Mr.  Alfred  Cook- 
man,  the  advertising  agent  for  whom  Summerfield  had  worked; 
but  nothing  came  of  that,  for  the  latter  did  not  care  to  pay 
more  than  six  thousand  a  year  and  Summerfield  had  once  told 
Eugene  that  he  would  eventually  pay  him  ten  thousand  if  he 
stayed  with  him.  He  did  not  think  it  was  fair  to  leave  him 
just  then,  and,  besides,  Cookman's  firm  had  not  the  force  and  go 
and  prestige  which  Summerfield  had  at  this  time.  His  real 
chance  came  some  six  months  later,  when  one  of  the  publishing 
houses  of  Philadelphia  having  an  important  weekly  to  market, 
began  looking  for  an  advertising  manager. 

It  was  the  policy  of  this  house  to  select  young  men  and  to 
select  from  among  all  the  available  candidates  just  the  one  par- 
ticular one  to  suit  the  fancy  of  the  owner  and  who  had  a  record 
of  successful  effort  behind  him.  Now  Eugene  was  not  any  more 
an  advertising  manager  by  experience  than  he  was  an  art  direc- 
tor, but  having  worked  for  Summerfield  for  nearly  two  years  he 
had  come  to  know  a  great  deal  about  advertising,  and  the  public 
thought  he  knew  a  great  deal  more.  He  knew  by  now  just  how 
Summerfield  had  his  business  organized.  He  knew  how  he  spe- 
cialized his  forces,  giving  this  line  to  one  and  that  line  to  an- 
other. He  had  been  able  to  learn  by  sitting  in  conferences  and 
consultations  what  it  was  that  advertisers  wanted,  how  they 
wanted  their  goods  displayed,  what  they  wanted  said.  He  had 
learned  that  novelty,  force  and  beauty  were  the  keynotes  and 
he  had  to  work  these  elements  out  under  the  most  galling  fire 
so  often  that  he  knew  how  it  ought  to  be  done.  He  knew  also 
about  commissions,  rebates,  long-time  contracts,  and  so  forth. 


436  THE    ^GENIUS'1 

He  had  fancied  more  than  once  that  he  might  run  a  little  adver- 
tising business  of  his  own  to  great  profit  if  he  only  could  find 
an  honest  and  capable  business  manager  or  partner.  Since  this 
person  was  not  forthcoming,  he  was  content  to  bide  his  time. 

But  the  Kalvin  Publishing  Company  of  Philadelphia  had 
heard  of  him.  In  his  search  for  a  man,  Obadiah  Kalvin,  the 
founder  of  the  company,  had  examined  many  individuals  through 
agents  in  Chicago,  in  St.  Louis,  in  Baltimore,  Boston,  and  New 
York,  but  he  had  not  yet  made  up  his  mind.  He  was  slow  in 
his  decisions,  and  always  flattered  himself  that  once  he  made  a 
selection  he  was  sure  of  a  good  result.  He  had  not  heard  of 
Eugene  until  toward  the  end  of  his  search,  but  one  day  in  the 
Union  Club  in  Philadelphia,  when  he  was  talking  to  a  big  ad- 
vertising agent  with  whom  he  did  considerable  business,  the 
latter  said: 

"I  hear  you  are  looking  for  an  advertising  manager  for  your 
weekly." 

"I  am,"  he  said. 

"I  heard  of  a  man  the  other  day  who  might  suit  you.  He's 
with  the  Summerfield  Company  in  New  York.  They've  been 
getting  up  some  very  striking  ads  of  late,  as  you  may  have  no- 
ticed." 

"I  think  I  have  seen  some  of  them,"  replied  Kalvin. 

"I'm  not  sure  of  the  man's  name — Witla,  or  Gitla,  or  some 
such  thing  as  that;  but,  anyhow,  he's  over  there,  and  they  say 
he's  pretty  good.  Just  what  he  is  in  the  house  I  don't  know. 
You  might  look  him  up." 

"Thanks;  I  will,"  replied  Kalvin.  He  was  really  quite  grate- 
ful, for  he  was  not  quite  satisfied  with  any  of  those  he  had  seen 
or  heard  of.  He  was  an  old  man,  extremely  sensitive  to  ability, 
wanting  to  combine  force  with  refinement  if  he  could ;  he  was  a 
good  Christian,  and  was  running  Christian,  or  rather  their  happy 
correlatives,  decidedly  conservative  publications.  When  he  went 
back  to  his  office  he  consulted  with  his  business  partner,  a  man 
named  Fredericks,  who  held  but  a  minor  share  in  the  company, 
and  asked  him  if  he  couldn't  find  out  something  about  this 
promising  individual.  Fredericks  did  so.  He  called  up  Cook- 
man,  in  New  York,  who  was  delighted  to  injure  his  old  em- 
ployee, Summerfield,  to  the  extent  of  taking  away  his  best  man 
if  he  could.  He  told  Fredericks  that  he  thought  Eugene  was 
very  capable,  probably  the  most  capable  young  man  in  the  field, 
and  in  all  likelihood  the  man  he  was  looking  for — a  hustler. 

"I  thought  once  of  hiring  him  myself  here  not  long  ago,"  he 
told  Fredericks.  "He  has  ideas,  you  can  see  that." 


THE    [  'GENIUS'  437 

The  next  thing  was  a  private  letter  from  Mr.  Fredericks  to 
Mr.  Witla  asking  if  by  any  chance  he  could  come  over  to  Phila- 
delphia the  following  Saturday  afternoon,  indicating  that  there 
was  a  business  proposition  of  considerable  importance  which  he 
wished  to  lay  before  him. 

From  the  paper  on  which  it  was  written  Eugene  could  see 
that  there  was  something  important  in  the  wind,  and  laid  the 
matter  before  Angela.  The  latter's  eyes  glistened. 

"I'd  certainly  go  if  I  were  you,"  she  advised.  "He  might 
want  to  make  you  business  manager  or  art  director  or  something. 
You  can  be  sure  they  don't  intend  to  offer  you  less  than  you're 
getting  now,  and  Mr.  Summerfield  certainly  has  not  treated  you 
very  well,  anyhow.  You've  worked  like  a  slave  for  him,  and 
he's  never  kept  his  agreement  to  raise  your  salary  as  much  as  he 
said  he  would.  It  may  mean  our  having  to  leave  New  York; 
but  that  doesn't  make  any  difference  for  a  while.  You  don't 
intend  to  stay  in  this  field,  anyhow.  You  only  want  to  stay 
long  enough  to  get  a  good  sound  income  of  your  own." 

Angela's  longing  for  Eugene's  art  career  was  nevertheless 
being  slightly  stilled  these  days  by  the  presence  and  dangled  lure 
of  money.  It  was  a  great  thing  to  be  able  to  go  downtown  and 
buy  dresses  and  hats  to  suit  the  seasons.  It  was  a  fine  thing  to 
be  taken  by  Eugene  Saturday  afternoons  and  Sundays  in  season 
to  Atlantic  City,  to  Spring  Lake,  and  Shelter  Island. 

"I  think  I  will  go  over,"  he  said;  and  he  wrote  Mr.  Freder- 
icks a  favorable  reply. 

The  latter  met  him  at  the  central  station  in  Philadelphia  with 
his  auto  and  took  him  out  to  his  country  place  in  the  Haverford 
district.  On  the  way  he  talked  of  everything  but  business — 
the  state  of  the  weather,  the  condition  of  the  territory  through 
which  they  were  traveling,  the  day's  news,  the  nature  and  inter- 
est of  Eugene's  present  work.  When  they  were  in  the  Freder- 
icks house,  where  they  arrived  in  time  for  dinner,  and  while  they 
were  getting  ready  for  it,  Mr.  Obadiah  Kalvin  dropped  in — 
ostensibly  to  see  his  partner,  but  really  to  look  at  Eugene  with- 
out committing  himself.  He  was  introduced  to  Eugene,  and 
shook  hands  with  him  cordially.  During  the  meal  he  talked 
with  Eugene  a  little,  though  not  on  business,  and  Eugene  won- 
dered why  he  had  been  called.  He  suspected,  knowing  as  he  did 
that  Kalvin  was  the  president  of  the  company,  that  the  latter 
was  there  to  look  at  him.  After  dinner  Mr.  Kalvin  left,  and 
Eugene  noted  that  Mr.  Fredericks  was  then  quite  ready  to  talk 
with  him. 

"The  thing  that  I  wanted  you  to  come  over  and  see  me  about 


438  THE    "GENIUS" 

is  in  regard  to  our  weekly  and  the  advertising  department.  We 
have  a  great  paper  over  here,  as  you  know,"  he  said.  "We  are 
intending  to  do  much  more  with  it  in  the  future  than  we  have 
in  the  past  even.  Mr.  Kalvin  is  anxious  to  get  just  the  man  to 
take  charge  of  the  advertising  department.  We  have  been  look- 
ing for  someone  for  quite  a  little  while.  Several  people  have 
suggested  your  name,  and  Fm  rather  inclined  to  think  that  Mr. 
Kalvin  would  be  pleased  to  see  you  take  it.  His  visit  here  today 
was  purely  accidental,  but  it  was  fortunate.  He  had  a  chance 
to  look  at  you,  so  that  if  I  should  propose  your  name  he  will 
know  just  who  you  are.  I  think  you  would  find  this  company 
a  fine  background  for  your  efforts.  We  have  no  penny-wise- 
and-pound-foolish  policy  over  here.  We  know  that  any  success- 
ful thing  is  made  by  the  men  behind  it,  and  we  are  willing  to 
pay  good  money  for  good  men.  I  don't  know  what  you  are 
getting  where  you  are,  and  I  don't  care  very  much.  If  you  are 
interested  I  should  like  to  talk  to  Mr.  Kalvin  about  you,  and 
if  he  is  interested  I  should  like  to  bring  you  two  together  for  a 
final  conference.  The  salary  will  be  made  right,  you  needn't 
worry  about  that.  Mr.  Kalvin  isn't  a  small  man.  If  he  likes 
a  man — and  I  think  he  might  like  you — he'll  offer  you  what  he 
thinks  you're  worth  and  you  can  take  it  or  leave  it.  I  never 
heard  anyone  complain  about  the  salary  he  offered." 

Eugene  listened  with  extreme  self-gratulation.  He  was  thrill- 
ing from  head  to  toe.  This  was  the  message  he  had  been  ex- 
pecting to  hear  for  so  long.  He  was  getting  five  thousand  now, 
he  had  been  offered  six  thousand.  Mr.  Kalvin  could  do  no  less 
than  offer  him  seven  or  eight — possibly  ten.  He  could  easily  ask 
seven  thousand  five  hundred. 

"I  must  say,"  he  said  innocently,  "the  proposition  sounds  at- 
tractive to  me.  It's  a  different  kind  of  thing — somewhat — from 
what  I  have  been  doing,  but  I  think  I  could  handle  it  success- 
fully. Of  course,  the  salary  will  determine  the  whole  thing 
I'm  not  at  all  badly  placed  where  I  am.  I've  just  got  comfort- 
ably settled  in  New  York,  and  I'm  not  anxious  to  move.  But  I 
would  not  be  opposed  to  coming.  I  have  no  contract  with  Mr. 
Summerfield.  He  has  never  been  willing  to  give  me  one." 

"Well,  we  are  not  keen  upon  contracts  ourselves,"  said  Mr. 
Fredericks.  "It's  not  a  very  strong  reed  to  lean  upon,  anyhow, 
as  you  know.  Still  a  contract  might  be  arranged  if  you  wish  it. 
Supposing  we  talk  a  little  further  to  Mr.  Kalvin  today.  He 
doesn't  live  so  far  from  here,"  and  with  Eugene's  consent  he 
went  to  the  phone. 

The  latter  had  supposed  that  the  conversation  with  Mr.  Kal- 


THE    ^GENIUS'  439 

vin  was  something  which  \vould  necessarily  have  to  take  place 
at  some  future  date;  but  from  the  conversation  then  and  there 
held  over  the  phone  it  appeared  not.  Mr.  Fredericks  explained 
elaborately  over  the  phone — as  though  it  was  necessary — that 
he  had  been  about  the  work  of  finding  an  advertising  manager 
for  some  time,  as  Mr.  Kalvin  knew,  and  that  he  had  some  diffi- 
culty in  finding  the  right  man. 

"I  have  been  talking  to  Mr.  Witla,  whom  you  met  here 
today,  and  he  is  interested  in  what  I  have  been  telling  him  about 
the  Weekly.  He  strikes  me  from  my  talk  with  him  here  as 
being  possibly  the  man  you  are  looking  for.  I  thought  that  you 
might  like  to  talk  with  him  further." 

Mr.  Kalvin  evidently  signified  his  assent,  for  the  machine 
was  called  out  and  they  traveled  to  his  house,  perhaps  a  mile 
away.  On  the  way  Eugene's  mind  was  busy  with  the  possibili- 
ties of  the  future.  It  was  all  so  nebulous,  this  talk  of  a  con- 
nection with  the  famous  Kalvin  Publishing  Company;  but  at 
the  same  time  it  was  so  significant,  so  potential.  Could  it  be 
possible  that  he  was  going  to  leave  Summerfield,  after  all,  and 
under  such  advantageous  circumstances?  It  seemed  like  a 
dream. 

Mr.  Kalvin  met  them  in  the  library  of  his  house,  which  stood 
in  a  spacious  lawn  and  which  save  for  the  lights  in  the  library 
was  quite  dark  and  apparently  lonely.  And  here  their  conversa- 
tion was  continued.  He  was  a  quiet  man — small,  gray-haired, 
searching  in  his  gaze.  He  had,  as  Eugene  noted,  little  hands  and 
feet,  and  appeared  as  still  and  composed  as  a  pool  in  dull 
weather.  He  said  slowly  and  quietly  that  he  was  glad  that 
Eugene  and  Mr.  Fredericks  had  had  a  talk.  He  had  heard  a 
little  something  of  Eugene  in  the  past;  not  much.  He  wanted 
to  know  what  Eugene  thought  of  current  advertising  policies, 
what  he  thought  of  certain  new  developments  in  advertising 
method,  and  so  on,  at  some  length. 

"So  you  think  you  might  like  to  come  with  us,"  he  observed 
drily  toward  the  end,  as  though  Eugene  had  proposed  coming. 

"I  don't  think  I  would  object  to  coming  under  certain  condi- 
tions/' he  replied. 

"And  what  are  those  conditions?" 

"Well,  I  would  rather  hear  what  you  have  to  suggest,  Mr. 
Kalvin.  I  really  am  not  sure  that  I  want  to  leave  where  I  am. 
I'm  doing  pretty  well  as  it  is." 

"Well,  you  seem  a  rather  likely  young  man  to  me,"  said  Mr. 
Kalvin.  "You  have  certain  qualities  which  I  think  I  need.  I'll 
say  eight  thousand  for  this  year,  and  if  everything  is  satisfac- 


440  THE    "GENIUS" 

tory  one  year  from  this  time  I'll  make  it  ten.  After  that  we'll 
let  the  future  take  care  of  itself." 

"Eight  thousand!  Ten  next  year!"  thought  Eugene.  The 
title  of  advertising  manager  of  a  great  publication!  This  was 
certainly  a  step  forward! 

"Well,  that  isn't  so  bad,"  he  said,  after  a  moment's  apparent 
reflection.  "I'd  be  willing  to  take  that,  I  think." 

"I  thought  you  would,"  said  Mr.  Kalvin,  with  a  dry  smile. 
"Well,  you  and  Mr.  Fredericks  can  arrange  the  rest  of  the  de- 
tails. Let  me  wish  you  good  luck,"  and  he  extended  his  hand 
cordially. 

Eugene  took  it. 

It  did  not  seem  as  he  rode  back  in  the  machine  with  Mr.  Fred- 
ericks to  the  latter's  house — for  he  was  invited  to  stay  for  the 
night — that  it  could  really  be  true.  Eight  thousand  a  year! 
Was  he  eventually  going  to  become  a  great  business  man  instead 
of  an  artist?  He  could  scarcely  flatter  himself  that  this  was 
true,  but  the  drift  was  strange.  Eight  thousand  this  year !  Ten 

the  next  if  he  made  good ;  twelve,  fifteen,  eighteen He  had 

heard  of  such  salaries  in  the  advertising  field  alone,  and  how 
much  more  would  his  investments  bring  him.  He  foresaw  an 
apartment  on  Riverside  Drive  in  New  York,  a  house  in  the 
country  perhaps,  for  he  fancied  he  would  not  always  want  to 
live  in  the  city.  An  automobile  of  his  own,  perhaps;  a  grand 
piano  for  Angela;  Sheraton  or  Chippendale  furniture;  friends, 
fame — what  artist's  career  could  compare  to  this?  Did  any 
artist  he  knew  enjoy  what  he  was  enjoying  now,  even?  Why 
should  he  worry  about  being  an  artist?  Did  they  ever  get 
anywhere?  Would  the  approval  of  posterity  let  him  ride  in  an 
automobile  now?  He  smiled  as  he  recalled  Dula's  talk  about 
class  superiority — the  distinction  of  being  an  artist,  even  though 
poor.  Poverty  be  hanged !  Posterity  could  go  to  the  devil !  He 
wanted  to  live  now — not  in  the  approval  of  posterity. 


CHAPTER  XXXVII 

THE  best  positions  are  not  always  free  from  the  most  dis- 
turbing difficulties,  for  great  responsibility  goes  with  great 
opportunity;  but  Eugene  went  gaily  to  this  new  task,  for  he 
knew  that  it  could  not  possibly  be  much  more  difficult  than  the 
one  he  was  leaving.  Truly,  Summerfield  had  been  a  terrible 
man  to  work  for.  He  had  done  his  best  by  petty  nagging,  in- 
sisting on  endless  variations,  the  most  frank  and  brutal  criti- 
cism, to  break  down  Eugene's  imperturbable  good  nature  and 
make  him  feel  that  he  could  not  reasonably  hope  to  handle  the 
situation  without  Summerfield's  co-operation  and  assistance. 
But  he  had  only  been  able,  by  so  doing,  to  bring  out  Eugene's 
better  resources.  His  self-reliance,  coolness  under  fire,  ability 
to  work  long  and  ardently  even  when  his  heart  was  scarcely  in 
it,  were  all  strengthened  and  developed. 

"Well,  luck  to  you,  Witla,"  he  said,  when  Eugene  informed 
him  one  morning  that  he  was  going  to  leave  and  wished  to  give 
him  notice. 

"You  needn't  take  me  into  consideration.  I  don't  want  you 
to  stay  if  you're  going  to  go.  The  quicker  the  better.  These 
long  drawn-out  agonies  over  leaving  don't  interest  me.  There's 
nothing  in  that.  Clinch  the  job  today  if  you  want  it.  I'll  find 
someone." 

Eugene  resented  his  indifference,  but  he  only  smiled  a  cordial 
smile  in  reply.  "I'll  stay  a  little  while  if  you  want  me  to — one 
or  two  weeks — I  don't  want  to  tie  up  your  work  in  any  way." 

"Oh,  no,  no !  You  won't  tie  up  my  work.  On  your  way,  and 
good  luck!" 

"The  little  devil!"  thought  Eugene;  but  he  shook  hands  and 
said  he  was  sorry.  Summerfield  grinned  imperturbably.  He 
wound  up  his  affairs  quickly  and  got  out.  "Thank  God,"  he 
said  the  day  he  left,  "I'm  out  of  that  hell  hole!"  But  he  came 
to  realize  afterward  that  Summerfield  had  rendered  him  a  great 
service.  He  had  forced  him  to  do  his  best  and  utmost,  which 
no  one  had  ever  done  before.  It  had  told  in  his  character,  his 
spiritual  make-up,  his  very  appearance.  He  was  no  longer  timid 
and  nervous,  but  rather  bold  and  determined-looking.  He  had 
lost  that  fear  of  very  little  things,  for  he  had  been  sailing  through 
stormy  seas.  Little  storms  did  not — could  never  again — really 
frighten  him.  He  had  learned  to  fight.  That  was  the  one  great 
thing  Summerfield  had  done  for  him. 

441 


442  THE   ''GENIUS'1 

In  the  offices  of  the  Kalvin  Company  it  was  radically  different. 
Here  was  comparative  peace  and  quiet.  Kalvin  had  not  fought 
his  way  up  by  clubbing  little  people  through  little  difficulties, 
but  had  devoted  himself  to  thinking  out  a  few  big  things,  and 
letting  them  because  of  their  very  bigness  and  newness  make 
their  own  way  and  his.  He  believed  in  big  men,  honest  men — 
the  biggest  and  most  honest  he  could  find.  He  saw  something 
in  Eugene,  a  tendency  toward  perfection  perhaps  which  attracted 
him. 

The  formalities  of  this  new  arrangement  were  soon  concluded, 
and  Eugene  came  into  his  new  and  beautiful  offices,  heralded  by 
the  word  recently  passed  about  that  he  was  a  most  charming  man. 
He  was  greeted  by  the  editor,  Townsend  Miller,  in  the  most 
cordial  manner.  He  was  met  by  his  assembled  staff  in  the  most 
friendly  spirit.  It  quite  took  Eugene's  breath  away  to  realize 
that  he  was  the  responsible  head  of  some  fifteen  capable  adver- 
tising men  here  in  Philadelphia  alone,  to  say  nothing  of  eight 
more  in  a  branch  office  in  Chicago  and  traveling  canvassers  in 
the  different  parts  of  the  country — the  far  West,  the  South,  the 
Southwest,  the  Canadian  Northwest.  His  material  surroundings 
were  much  more  imposing  than  they  had  been  with  the  Summer- 
field  Company.  The  idea  of  all  these  men  was  to  follow  up 
business,  to  lay  interesting  propositions  before  successful  mer- 
chants and  manufacturers  who  had  not  yet  tried  the  columns  of 
the  North  American  W  eekly,  to  make  contracts  which  should  be 
mutually  advantageous  to  the  advertiser  and  the  Weekly,  and  to 
gain  and  retain  good-will  according  to  the  results  rendered.  It 
was  no  very  difficult  task  in  connection  with  the  North  American 
Weekly  to  do  this,  because  owing  to  a  novel  and  appealing 
editorial  policy  it  was  already  in  possession  of  a  circulation  of 
five  hundred  thousand  a  week,  and  was  rapidly  gaining  more. 
It  was  not  difficult,  as  Eugene  soon  found,  to  show  advertisers  in 
most  cases  that  this  was  a  proposition  in  which  worth-while  re- 
sults could  be  obtained.  What  with  Eugene's  fertility  in  sug- 
gesting new  methods  of  advertising,  his  suaveness  of  approach 
and  geniality  in  laying  before  the  most  recalcitrant  his  very  desir- 
able schemes,  his  ability  to  get  ideas  and  suggestions  out  of  his 
men  in  conference,  he  was  really  in  no  danger  of  not  being  able 
to  hold  his  own,  and  indeed  was  destined  to  make  a  rather  re- 
markable showing. 

Eugene  and  Angela  settled  into  what  might  have  been  deemed 
a  fixed  attitude  of  comfort  and  refinement.  Without  much  in- 
convenience to  himself  and  with  little  friction  among  those 
about,  he  had  succeeded  in  reorganizing  his  staff  along  lines 


THE    "GENIUS'  443 

which  were  eminently  satisfactory  to  himself.  Some  men  who 
were  formerly  with  the  Summerfleld  Company  were  now  with 
him.  He  had  brought  them  because  he  found  he  could  inculcate 
in  them  the  spirit  of  sympathetic  relationship  and  good  under- 
standing such  as  Kalvin  desired.  He  was  not  making  the  prog- 
ress which  Summerfleld  was  making  with  really  less  means  at 
his  command,  but  then,  on  the  other  hand,  this  was  a  rich  com- 
pany which  did  not  ask  or  expect  any  such  struggle  as  that  which 
Summerfleld  had  been  and  was  still  compelled  to  make  for  him- 
self. The  business  ethics  of  this  company  were  high.  It  be- 
lieved in  clean  methods,  good  salaries,  honest  service.  Kalvin 
liked  him,  and  he  had  one  memorable  conversation  with  Eugene 
some  time  after  he  came  there — almost  a  year — which  stuck  in 
his  memory  and  did  him  much  good.  Kalvin  saw  clearly  where- 
in both  his  strength  and  his  weakness  lay,  and  once  said  to  Fred- 
ericks, his  business  manager:  "The  one  thing  I  like  about  that 
man  is  his  readiness  with  ideas.  He  always  has  one,  and  he's 
the  most  willing  man  to  try  I  ever  knew.  He  has  imagination. 
He  needs  to  be  steadied  in  the  direction  of  sober  thought,  so  that 
he  doesn't  promise  more  than  he  can  fulfil.  Outside  this  I  see 
nothing  the  matter  with  him." 

Fredericks  agreed.  He  liked  Eugene  also.  He  did  as  much 
as  he  could  to  make  things  smooth,  but  of  course  Eugene's  task 
was  personal  and  to  be  worked  out  by  him  solely.  Kalvin  said 
to  him  when  it  became  necessary  to  raise  his  salary: 

"I've  watched  your  work  for  a  year  now  and  I'm  going  to 
keep  my  word  and  raise  your  salary.  You're  a  good  man.  You 
have  many  excellent  qualities  which  I  want  and  need  in  the  man 
who  sits  at  that  desk;  but  you  have  also  some  failings.  I  don't 
want  you  to  get  offended.  A  man  in  my  position  is  always  like 
a  father  who  sits  at  the  head  of  a  family,  and  my  lieutenants 
are  like  my  sons.  I  have  to  take  an  interest  in  them  because 
they  take  an  interest  in  me.  Now  you've  done  your  work  well — 
very  well,  but  you  are  subject  to  one  fault  which  may  sometime 
lead  into  trouble.  You're  a  little  too  enthusiastic.  I  don't  think 
you  stop  to  think  enough.  You  have  a  lot  of  ideas.  They  swarm 
in  your  head  like  bees,  and  sometimes  you  let  them  all  out  at 
once  and  they  buzz  around  you  and  confuse  you  and  everyone 
else  connected  with  you.  You  would  really  be  a  better  man  if 
you  had,  not  less  ideas — I  wouldn't  say  that — but  better  control 
of  them.  You  want  to  do  too  many  things  at  once.  Go  slow. 
Take  your  time.  You  have  lots  of  time.  You're  young  yet. 
Think!  If  you're  in  doubt,  come  down  and  consult  with  me.  I'm 
older  in  this  business  than  you  are,  and  I'll  help  you  all  I  can." 


444  THE    ''GENIUS' 

Eugene  smiled  and  said:   "I  think  that's  true." 

"It  is  true,"  said  Kalvin;  "and  now  I  want  to  speak  of  an- 
other thing  which  is  a  little  more  of  a  personal  matter,  and  I 
don't  want  you  to  take  offence,  for  I'm  saying  it  for  your  benefit. 
If  I'm  any  judge  of  men,  and  I  flatter  myself  sometimes  that  I 
am,  you're  a  man  whose  greatest  weakness  lies — and,  mind  you, 
I  have  no  actual  evidence  to  go  upon,  not  one  scrap — your  great- 
est weakness  lies  perhaps  not  so  much  in  the  direction  of  women 
as  in  a  love  of  luxury  generally,  of  which  women  might  become, 
and  usually  are,  a  very  conspicuous  part." 

Eugene  flushed  the  least  bit  nervously  and  resentfully,  for  he 
thought  he  had  conducted  himself  in  the  most  circumspect  man- 
ner here — in  fact,  everywhere  since  the  days  he  had  begun  to 
put  the  Riverwood  incident  behind  him. 

"Now  I  suppose  you  wonder  why  I  say  that.  Well,  I  raised 
two  boys,  both  dead  now,  and  one  was  just  a  little  like  you. 
You  have  so  much  imagination  that  it  runs  not  only  to  ideas  in 
business,  but  ideas  in  dress  and  comfort  and  friends  and  enter- 
tainment. Be  careful  of  the  kind  of  people  you  get  in  with. 
Stick  to  the  conservative  element.  It  may  be  hard  for  you,  but 
it's  best  for  you,  materially  speaking.  You're  the  kind  of  man, 
if  my  observations  and  intuitions  are  correct,  who  is  apt  to  be 
carried  away  by  his  ideals  of  anything — beauty,  women,  show. 
Now  I  have  no  ascetic  objections  to  women,  but  to  you  they  are 
dangerous,  as  yet.  At  bottom,  I  don't  think  you  have  the  mak- 
ing of  a  real  cold  business  man  in  you,  but  you're  a  splendid 
lieutenant.  I'll  tell  you  frankly  I  don't  think  a  better  man  than 
you  has  ever  sat,  or  could  sit,  in  that  chair.  You  are  very  ex- 
ceptional, but  your  very  ability  makes  you  an  uncertain  quantity. 
You're  just  on  the  threshold  of  your  career.  This  additional 
two  thousand  dollars  is  going  to  open  up  new  opportunities  to 
you.  Keep  cool.  Keep  out  of  the  hands  of  clever  people.  Don't 
let  subtle  women  come  near.  You're  married,  and  for  your  sake 
I  hope  you  love  your  wife.  If  you  don't,  pretend  to,  and  stay 
within  the  bounds  of  convention.  Don't  let  any  scandal  ever 
attach  to  you.  If  you  do  it  will  be  absolutely  fatal  so  far  as  I 
am  concerned.  I  have  had  to  part  with  a  number  of  excellent 
men  in  my  time  because  a  little  money  turned  their  heads  and 
they  went  wild  over  some  one  woman,  or  many  women.  Don't 
you  be  that  way.  I  like  you.  I'd  like  to  see  you  get  along.  Be 
cold  if  you  can.  Be  careful.  Think.  That's  the  best  advice  I 
can  give  you,  and  I  wish  you  luck." 

He  waved  him  a  dismissal,  and  Eugene  rose.  He  wondered 
how  this  man  had  seen  so  clearly  into  his  character.  It  was  the 


THE    "GENIUS'  445 

truth,  and  he  knew  it  was.  His  inmost  thoughts  and  feelings 
were  evidently  written  where  this  man  could  see  them.  Fittingly 
was  he  president  of  a  great  company.  He  could  read  men. 

He  went  back  into  his  office  and  decided  to  take  this  lesson 
to  heart.  He  must  keep  cool  and  sane  always.  "I  guess  I've 
had  enough  experience  to  know  that,  though,  by  now,"  he  said 
and  dismissed  the  idea  from  his  mind. 

For  this  year  and  the  year  following,  when  his  salary  was 
raised  to  twelve  thousand,  Eugene  flourished  prodigiously.  He 
and  Miller  became  better  friends  than  ever.  Miller  had  adver- 
tising ideas  which  were  of  value  to  Eugene.  Eugene  had  art  and 
editorial  ideas  which  were  of  value  to  Miller.  They  were  to- 
gether a  great  deal  at  social  functions,  and  were  sometimes  hailed 
by  their  companions  as  the  "Kalvin  Kids,"  and  the  "Limelight 
Twins."  Eugene  learned  to  play  golf  with  Miller,  though  he 
was  a  slow  student  and  never  good,  and  also  tennis.  He  and 
Mrs.  Miller,  Angela  and  Townsend,  frequently  made  a  set  on 
their  own  court  or  over  at  Miller's.  They  automobiled  and 
rode  a  great  deal.  Eugene  met  some  charming  women,  particu- 
larly young  ones,  at  dances,  of  which  he  had  become  very  fond, 
and  at  dinners  and  receptions.  They  and  the  Millers  were  in- 
vited to  a  great  many  affairs,  but  by  degrees  it  became  apparent 
to  him,  as  it  did  to  Miller  and  Mrs.  Miller,  that  his  presence 
was  much  more  desired  by  a  certain  type  of  smart  woman  than 
was  that  of  his  wife. 

"Oh,  he  is  so  clever!"  was  an  observation  which  might  have 
been  heard  in  various  quarters.  Frequently  the  compliment 
stopped  there  and  nothing  was  said  of  Angela,  or  later  on  it 
would  come  up  that  she  was  not  quite  so  nice.  Not  that  she  was 
not  charming  and  worthy  and  all  that,  "But  you  know,  my  dear, 
she  isn't  quite  so  available.  You  can't  use  her  as  you  can  some 
women." 

It  was  at  this  time  that  Angela  first  conceived  the  notion 
seriously  that  a  child  might  have  a  sobering  effect  on  Eugene. 
She  had,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  for  some  time  now  they  had 
been  well  able  to  support  one  or  more,  and  in  spite  also  of  the 
fact  that  Eugene's  various  emotional  lapses  indicated  that  he 
needed  a  sobering  weight  of  some  kind,  steadily  objected  in  her 
mind  to  the  idea  of  subjecting  herself  to  this  ordeal.  To  tell 
the  truth,  aside  from  the  care  and  wwry  which  always,  owing 
to  her  early  experience  with  her  sister's  children,  had  been  asso- 
ciated in  her  mind  with  the  presence  of  them,  she  was  decidedly 
afraid  of  the  result.  She  had  heard  her  mother  say  that  most 
girls  in  their  infancy  showed  very  clearly  whether  they  were  to 


446  THE    "GENIUS" 

be  good  healthy  mothers  or  not — whether  they  were  to  have 
children — and  her  recollection  was  that  her.  mother  had  once 
said  that  she  would  not  have  any  children.  She  half  believed  it 
to  be  impossible  in  her  case,  though  she  had  never  told  this  to 
Eugene,  and  she  had  guarded  herself  jealously  against  the 
chance  of  having  any. 

Now,  however,  after  watching  Eugene  all  these  years,  seeing 
the  drift  of  his  present  mood,  feeling  the  influence  of  prosperity 
on  him,  she  wished  sincerely  that  she  might  have  one,  without 
great  danger  or  discomfort  to  herself,  in  order  that  she  might 
influence  and  control  him.  He  might  learn  to  love  it.  The 
sense  of  responsibility  involved  would  have  its  effect.  People 
would  look  to  him  to  conduct  himself  soberly  under  these  cir- 
cumstances, and  he  probably  would — he  was  so  subject  to  public 
opinion  now.  She  thought  of  this  a  long  time,  wondering,  for 
fear  and  annoyance  were  quite  strong  influences  with  her,  and 
she  did  nothing  immediately.  She  listened  to  various  women 
who  talked  with  her  from  time  to  time  about  the  child  question, 
and  decided  that  perhaps  it  was  very  wrong  not  to  have  chil- 
dren— at  least  one  or  two;  that  it  was  very  likely  possible  that 
she  could  have  one,  if  she  wanted  to.  A  Mrs.  Sanifore  who 
called  on  her  quite  frequently  in  Philadelphia — she  met  her  at 
the  Millers' — told  her  that  she  was  sure  she  could  have  one 
even  if  she  was  past  the  usual  age  for  first  babies;  for  she  had 
known  so  many  women  who  had. 

"If  I  were  you,  Mrs.  Witla,  I  would  see  a  doctor,"  she  sug- 
gested one  day.  "He  can  tell  you.  I'm  sure  you  can  if  you 
want  to.  They  have  so  many  ways  of  dieting  and  exercising 
you  which  make  all  the  difference  in  the  world.  I'd  like  to 
have  you  come  some  day  and  see  my  doctor,  if  you  will." 

Angela  decided  that  she  would,  for  curiosity's  sake,  and  in 
case  she  wished  to  act  in  the  matter  some  time;  and  was  in- 
formed by  the  wiseacre  who  examined  her  that  in  his  opinion 
there  was  no  doubt  that  she  could.  She  would  have  to  subject 
herself  to  a  strict  regimen.  Her  muscles  would  have  to  be 
softened  by  some  form  of  manipulation.  Otherwise,  she  was 
apparently  in  a  healthy,  normal  condition  and  would  suffer  no 
intolerable  hardship.  This  pleased  and  soothed  Angela  greatly. 
It  gave  her  a  club  wherewith  to  strike  her  lord — a  chain  where- 
with to  bind  him.  She  did  not  want  to  act  at  once.  It  was 
too  serious  a  matter.  She  wanted  time  to  think.  But  it  was 
pleasant  to  know  that  she  could  do  this.  Unless  Eugene  sobered 
down  now 

During  the  time  in  which  he  had  been  working  for  the  Sum- 


THE    "GENIUS'  447 

merfield  Company  and  since  then  for  the  Kalvin  Company  here 
in  Philadelphia,  Eugene,  in  spite  of  the  large  salary  he  was 
receiving — more  each  year — really  had  not  saved  so  much  money. 
Angela  had  seen  to  it  that  some  of  his  earnings  were  invested 
in  Pennsylvania  Railroad  stock,  which  seemed  to  her  safe 
enough,  and  in  a  plot  of  ground  two  hundred  by  two  hundred 
feet  at  Upper  Montclair,  New  Jersey,  near  New  York,  where 
she  and  Eugene  might  some  day  want  to  live.  His  business  en- 
gagements had  necessitated  considerable  personal  expenditures, 
his  opportunity  to  enter  the  Baltusrol  Golf  Club,  the  Yere 
Tennis  Club,  the  Philadelphia  Country  Club,  and  similar  or- 
ganizations had  taken  annual  sums  not  previously  contemplated, 
and  the  need  of  having  a  modest  automobile,  not  a  touring  car, 
was  obvious.  His  short  experience  with  that  served  as  a  lesson, 
however,  for  it  was  found  to  be  a  terrific  expense,  entirely  dis- 
proportionate to  his  income.  After  paying  for  endless  repairs, 
salarying  a  chauffeur  wearisomely,  and  meeting  with  an  acci- 
dent which  permanently  damaged  the  looks  of  his  machine,  he 
decided  to  give  it  up.  They  could  rent  autos  for  all  the  uses 
they  would  have.  And  so  that  luxury  ended  there. 

It  was  curious,  too,  how  during  this  time  their  Western  home 
relations  fell  rather  shadowily  into  the  background.  Eugene 
had  not  been  home  now  for  nearly  two  years,  and  Angela  had 
seen  only  David  of  all  her  family  since  she  had  been  in  Phila- 
delphia. In  the  fall  of  their  third  year  there  Angela's  mother 
died  and  she  returned  to  Blackwood  for  a  short  time.  The  fol- 
lowing spring  Eugene's  father  died.  Myrtle  moved  to  New 
York;  her  husband,  Frank  Bangs,  was  connected  with  a  western 
furniture  company  which  was  maintaining  important  show  rooms 
in  New  York.  Myrtle  had  broken  down  nervously  and  taken 
up  Christian  Science,  Eugene  heard.  Henry  Burgess,  Sylvia's 
husband,  had  become  president  of  the  bank  with  which  he  had 
been  so  long  connected,  and  had  sold  his  father's  paper,  the 
Alexandria  Appeal,  when  the  latter  suddenly  died.  Marietta 
was  promising  to  come  to  Philadelphia  next  year,  in  order,  as 
she  said,  that  Eugene  might  get  her  a  rich  husband ;  but  Angela 
informed  him  privately  that  Marietta  was  now  irrevocably  en- 
gaged and  would,  the  next  year,  marry  a  wealthy  Wisconsin 
lumber  man.  Everyone  was  delighted  to  hear  that  Eugene  was 
doing  so  well,  though  all  regretted  the  lapse  of  his  career  as  an 
artist.  His  fame  as  an  advertising  man  was  growing,  and  he 
was  thought  to  have  considerable  weight  in  the  editorial  direc- 
tion of  the  North  American  Weekly.  So  he  flourished. 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII 

IT  was  in  the  fall  of  the  third  year  that  the  most  flattering 
offer  of  any  was  made  him,  and  that  without  any  seeking  on 
his  part,  for  he  was  convinced  that  he  had  found  a  fairly  per- 
manent berth  and  was  happy  among  his  associates.  Publishing 
and  other  trade  conditions  were  at  this  time  in  a  peculiar  con- 
dition, in  which  lieutenants  of  any  importance  in  any  field  might 
well  be  called  to  positions  of  apparently  extraordinary  promi- 
nence and  trust.  Most  of  the  great  organizations  of  Eugene's 
day  were  already  reaching  a  point  where  they  were  no  longer 
controlled  by  the  individuals  who  had  founded  and  constructed 
them,  but  had  passed  into  the  hands  of  sons  or  holding  com- 
panies, or  groups  of  stockholders,  few  of  whom  knew  much,  if 
anything,  of  the  businesses  which  they  were  called  to  engineer 
and  protect. 

Hiram  C.  Colfax  was  not  a  publisher  at  all  at  heart.  He  had 
come  into  control  of  the  Swinton-Scudder-Davis  Company  by 
one  of  those  curious  manipulations  of  finance  which  sometimes 
give  the  care  of  sheep  into  the  hands  of  anything  but  competent 
or  interested  shepherds.  Colfax  was  sufficiently  alert  to  handle 
anything  in  such  a  wray  that  it  would  eventually  make  money 
for  him,  even  if  that  result  were  finally  attained  by  parting  with 
it.  In  other  words,  he  was  a  financier.  His  father  had  been  a 
New  England  soap  manufacturer,  and  having  accumulated  more 
or  less  radical  ideas  along  with  his  wealth,  had  decided  to  propa- 
gandize in  favor  of  various  causes,  the  Single  Tax  theory  of 
Henry  George  for  one,  Socialism  for  another,  the  promotion  of 
reform  ideas  in  politics  generally.  He  had  tried  in  various  ways 
to  get  his  ideas  before  the  public,  but  had  not  succeeded  very 
well.  He  was  not  a  good  speaker,  not  a  good  writer,  simply  a 
good  money  maker  and  fairly  capable  thinker,  and  this  irri- 
tated him.  He  thought  once  of  buying  or  starting  a  newspaper 
in  Boston,  but  investigation  soon  showed  him  that  this  was  a 
rather  hazardous  undertaking.  He  next  began  subsidizing 
small  weeklies  which  should  advocate  his  reforms,  but  this 
resulted  in  little.  His  interest  in  pamphleteering  did  bring  his 
name  to  the  attention  of  Martin  W.  Davis  of  the  Swinton-Scud- 
der-Davis Company,  whose  imprint  on  books,  magazines  and 
weeklies  was  as  common  throughout  the  length  and  breadth  of 
the  land  as  that  of  Oxford  is  upon  the  English  bible. 

The  Swinton-Scudder-Davis  Company  was  in  sad  financial 

448 


THE    "GENIUS"  449 

straits.  Intellectually,  for  various  reasons,  it  had  run  to  seed. 
John  Jacob  Swinton  and  Owen  V.  Scudder,  the  men  with  book, 
magazine  and  true  literary  instincts,  were  long  since  dead.  Mr. 
Davis  had  tried  for  the  various  heirs  and  assigns  involved  to 
run  it  intelligently  and  honestly,  but  intelligence  and  honesty 
were  of  little  value  in  this  instance  without  great  critical  judg- 
ment. This  he  had  not.  The  house  had  become  filled  with 
editors,  readers,  critics,  foremen  of  manufacturing  and  printing 
departments,  business  managers,  art  directors,  traveling  salesmen 
and  so  on  without  end,  each  of  whom  might  be  reasonably  effi- 
cient if  left  alone,  but  none  of  whom  worked  well  together  and 
all  of  whom  used  up  a  great  deal  of  money. 

The  principal  literary  publication,  a  magazine  of  great  pres- 
tige, was  in  the  hands  of  an  old  man  who  had  been  editor 
for  nearly  forty  years.  A  weekly  was  being  run  by  a  boy,  com- 
paratively, a  youth  of  twenty-nine.  A  second  magazine,  de- 
voted to  adventure  fiction,  was  in  the  hands  of  another  young 
man  of  twenty-six,  a  national  critical  monthly  was  in  the  hands 
of  salaried  critics  of  great  repute  and  uncompromising  attitude. 
The  book  department  was  divided  into  the  hands  of  a  juvenile 
editor,  a  fiction  editor,  a  scientific  and  educational  editor  and 
so  on.  It  was  Mr.  Davis*  task  to  see  that  competent  overseers 
were  in  charge  of  all  departments  so  that  they  might  flourish 
and  work  harmoniously  under  him,  but  he  was  neither  suffi- 
ciently wise  or  forceful  to  fill  the  role.  He  was  old  and  was 
veered  about  first  by  one  theory  and  then  by  another,  and  within 
the  house  were  rings  and  cliques.  One  of  the  most  influential 
of  these — the  most  influential,  in  fact — was  one  which  was  cap- 
tained and  led  by  Florence  J.  White,  an  Irish-American,  who 
as  business  manager  (and  really  more  than  that,  general  manager 
under  Davis)  was  in  charge  of  the  manufacturing  and  printing 
departments,  and  who  because  of  his  immense  budgets  for  paper, 
ink,  printing,  mailing  and  distribution  generally,  was  in  practi- 
cal control  of  the  business. 

He  it  was  who  with  Davis*  approval  said  how  much  was  to 
be  paid  for  paper,  ink,  composition,  press  work,  and  salaries  gen- 
erally. He  it  was  who  through  his  henchman,  the  head  of  the 
printing  department,  arranged  the  working  schedules  by  which 
the  magazines  and  books  were  to  reach  the  presses,  with  the 
practical  power  to  say  whether  they  were  to  be  on  time  or  not. 
He  it  was  who  through  another  superintendent  supervised  the 
mailing  and  the  stock  room,  and  by  reason  of  his  great  executive 
ability  was  coming  to  have  a  threatening  control  over  the  adver- 
tising and  circulation  departments. 


450  THE    "GENIUS" 

The  one  trouble  with  White,  and  this  was  something  which 
would  affect  any  man  who  should  come  in  through  Davis'  aus- 
pices, was  that  he  knew  nothing  of  art,  literature,  or  science, 
and  cared  less,  his  only  interest  being  in  manufacture.  He  had 
risen  so  rapidly  on  the  executive  side  that  his  power  had  outrun 
his  financial  means.  Davis,  the  present  head  above  him,  had  no 
means  beyond  his  own  depreciated  share.  Because  of  poor  edi- 
torial judgment,  the  books  and  magazines  were  tottering  through 
a  serious  loss  of  prestige  to  eventual  failure.  Something  had  to 
be  done,  for  at  that  time  the  expenditure  for  three  years  past 
had  been  much  greater  than  the  receipts. 

So  Marshall  P.  Colfax,  the  father  of  Hiram  Colfax,  had  been 
appealed  to,  because  of  his  interest  in  reform  ideas  which  might 
be  to  a  certain  extent  looked  upon  as  related  to  literature,  and 
because  he  was  reported  to  be  a  man  of  great  wealth.  Rumor 
reported  his  fortune  as  being  anywhere  between  six  and  eight 
millions.  The  proposition  which  Davis  had  to  put  before  him 
was  this:  that  he  buy  from  the  various  heirs  and  assigns  the 
whole  of  the  stock  outside  his  (Davis')  own,  which  amounted 
to  somewhere  about  sixty-five  per  cent,  and  then  come  in  as 
managing  director  and  reorganize  the  company  to  suit  himself. 
Davis  was  old.  He  did  not  want  to  trouble  himself  about  the 
future  of  this  company  or  risk  his  own  independent  property. 
He  realized  as  well  as  anyone  that  what  the  company  needed 
was  new  blood.  A  receivership  at  this  juncture  would  injure 
the  value  of  the  house  imprint  very  much  indeed.  White  had 
no  money,  and  besides  he  was  so  new  and  different  that  Davis 
scarcely  understood  what  his  ambitions  or  his  true  importance 
might  be.  There  was  no  real  intellectual  sympathy  between 
them.  In  the  main,  he  did  not  like  White's  temperament,  and 
so  in  considering  what  might  be  done  for  the  company  he  passed 
him  by. 

Various  consultations  were  held.  Colfax  was  greatly  flattered 
to  think  that  this  proposition  should  be  brought  to  his  attention 
at  all.  He  had  three  sons,  only  one  of  whom  was  interested  in 
the  soap  business.  Edward  and  Hiram,  the  two  youngest, 
wanted  nothing  to  do  with  it.  He  thought  this  might  be  an 
outlet  for  the  energies  of  one  or  both  of  them,  preferably  Hiram, 
who  was  more  of  an  intellectual  and  scientific  turn  than  the 
others,  though  his  chief  interests  were  financial;  and  besides 
these  books  and  publications  would  give  him  the  opportunity 
which  he  had  long  been  seeking.  His  personal  prestige  might 
be  immensely  heightened  thereby.  He  examined  carefully  into 
the  financial  phases  of  the  situation,  using  his  son  Hiram,  whose 


THE    "GENIUS1  451 

financial  judgment  he  had  faith  in,  as  an  accountant  and  mouth- 
piece, and  finally,  after  seeing  that  he  could  secure  the  stock  on 
a  long-time  consideration  for  a  very  moderate  valuation — 
$1,500,000,  while  it  was  worth  $3,000,000 — he  had  his  son 
Hiram  elected  director  and  president  and  proceeded  to  see  what 
could  be  done  with  the  company. 

In  this  approaching  transaction  Florence  J.  White  had  seen 
his  opportunity  and  seized  it.  He  had  realized  on  sight  that 
Hiram  would  need  and  possibly  appreciate  all  the  information 
and  assistance  he  could  get,  and  being  in  a  position  to  know  he 
had  laid  all  the  facts  in  connection  with  the  house  plainly  before 
him.  He  saw  clearly  where  the  trouble  lay,  the  warring  fac- 
tions, the  lack  of  editorial  judgment,  the  poor  financial  manipu- 
lations. He  knew  exactly  where  the  stock  was  and  by  what 
representations  it  could  be  best  frightened  and  made  to  release 
itself  cheaply.  He  worked  vigorously  for  Hiram  because  he 
liked  him  and  the  latter  reciprocated  his  regard. 

"You've  been  a  prince  in  this  transaction,  White,"  he  said  to 
that  individual  one  day.  "You've  put  things  practically  in  my 
hands.  I'm  not  going  to  forget  it." 

"Don't  mention  it,"  said  White.  "It's  to  my  interest  to  see  a 
real  live  man  come  in  here." 

"When  I  become  president,  you  become  vice-president,  and 
that  means  twenty-five  thousand  a  year."  White  was  then 
getting  twelve. 

"When  I  become  vice-president  nothing  will  ever  happen  to 
your  interests,"  returned  the  other  man  grimly.  White  was  six 
feet  tall,  lean,  savage,  only  semi-articulate.  Colfax  was  small, 
wiry,  excitable,  with  enough  energy  to  explode  a  cartridge  by 
yelling  at  it.  He  was  eager,  vainglorious,  in  many  respects  bril- 
liant. He  wanted  to  shine  in  the  world,  and  he  did  not  know 
how  to  do  it  as  yet  exactly. 

The  two  shook  hands  firmly. 

Some  three  months  later  Colfax  was  duly  elected  director  and 
president,  and  the  same  meeting  that  elected  him  president 
elected  Florence  J.  White  vice-president.  The  latter  was  for 
clearing  out  all  the  old  elements  and  letting  in  new  blood.  Colfax 
was  for  going  slow,  until  he  could  see  for  himself  what  he 
wanted  to  do.  One  or  two  men  were  eliminated  at  once,  an  old 
circulation  man  and  an  old  advertising  man.  In  six  months, 
while  they  were  still  contemplating  additional  changes  and  look- 
ing for  new  men,  Colfax  senior  died,  and  the  Swinton-Scudder- 
Davis  Company,  or  at  least  Mr.  Colfax's  control  of  it,  was 
willed  to  Hiram.  So  he  sat  there,  accidentally  president,  and 


452  THE   "GENIUS" 

in  full  charge,  wondering  how  he  should  make  it  a  great  suc- 
cess, and  Florence  J.  White  was  his  henchman  and  sworn  ally. 

At  the  time  that  Colfax  first  heard  of  Eugene  he  had  been 
in  charge  of  the  Swinton-Scudder-Davis  Company  (which  he 
was  planning  to  reincorporate  as  "The  United  Magazines 
Corporation")  for  three  years.  He  had  made  a  number  of 
changes,  some  radical,  some  conservative.  He  had  put  in  an 
advertising  man  whom  he  was  now  finding  unsatisfactory,  and 
had  made  changes  in  the  art  and  editorial  departments  which 
were  more  the  result  of  the  suggestions  of  others,  principally 
of  White,  than  the  thoughts  of  his  own  brain.  Martin  W.  Davis 
had  retired.  He  was  old  and  sick,  and  unwilling  to  ruminate 
in  a  back-room  position.  Such  men  as  the  editor  of  the  National 
Review,  Swintons  Magazine,  and  Scudders  Weekly  were  the 
only  figures  of  importance  about  the  place,  and  they  were  now 
of  course  immensely  subsidiary  to  Hiram  Colfax  and  Florence 
White. 

The  latter  had  introduced  a  rather  hard,  bitter  atmosphere 
into  the  place.  He  had  been  raised  under  difficult  conditions 
himself  in  a  back  street  in  Brooklyn,  and  had  no  sympathy  with 
the  airs  and  intellectual  insipidities  which  characterized  the 
editorial  and  literary  element  which  filled  the  place.  He  had  an 
Irishman's  love  of  organization  and  politics,  but  far  and  away 
above  that  he  had  an  Irishman's  love  of  power.  Because  of  the 
trick  he  had  scored  in  winning  the  favor  of  Hiram  Colfax  at 
the  time  when  the  tremendous  affairs  of  the  concern  were  in  a 
state  of  transition,  he  had  become  immensely  ambitious.  He 
wanted  to  be  not  nominally  but  actually  director  of  the  affairs 
of  this  house  under  Colfax,  and  he  saw  his  way  clear  to  do  it  by 
getting  editors,  art  directors,  department  heads  and  assistants 
generally  who  were  agreeable  to  him.  But  unfortunately  he 
could  not  do  this  directly,  for  while  Colfax  cared  little  about 
the  details  of  the  business  his  hobby  was  just  this  one  thing — 
men.  Like  Obadiah  Kalvin,  of  the  Kalvin  Publishing  Company, 
who,  by  the  way,  was  now  his  one  great  rival,  Colfax  prided 
himself  on  his  ability  to  select  men.  His  general  idea  was  that  if 
he  could  find  one  more  man  as  good  as  Florence  White  to  take 
charge  of  the  art,  editorial  and  book  end  of  the  business,  not 
from  the  manufacturing  and  commercial,  but  from  the  intel- 
lectual and  spiritual  ends — a  man  with  ideas  who  would  draw 
to  him  authors,  editors,  scientific  writers  and  capable  assistants 
generally — the  fortune  of  the  house  would  be  made.  He 
thought,  sanely  enough  from  some  points  of  view,  that  this  pub- 
lishing world  could  be  divided  in  this  way.  White  bringing 


THE    "GENIUS'  453 

the  inside  manufacturing,  purchasing  and  selling  interests  to  a 
state  of  perfection ;  the  new  man,  whoever  he  might  be,  bringing 
the  ideas  of  the  house  and  their  literary  and  artistic  representa- 
tion up  to  such  a  state  of  efficiency  that  the  whole  country  would 
know  that  it  was  once  more  powerful  and  successful.  He 
wanted  to  be  called  the  foremost  publisher  of  his  day,  and  then 
he  could  retire  gracefully  or  devote  himself  to  other  financial 
matters  as  he  pleased. 

He  really  did  not  understand  Florence  J.  White  as  well  as 
he  did  himself.  White  was  a  past  master  at  dissembling.  He 
had  no  desire  to  see  any  such  thing  as  Colfax  was  now  planning 
come  to  pass.  He  could  not  do  the  things  intellectually  and 
spiritually  which  Colfax  wanted  done,  nevertheless  he  wanted 
to  be  king  under  this  emperor,  the  real  power  behind  the  throne, 
and  he  did  not  propose  to  brook  any  interference  if  he  could 
help  it.  It  was  in  his  power,  having  the  printing  and  composing 
room  in  his  hands,  to  cause  any  man  whom  he  greatly  disliked 
to  suffer  severely.  Forms  could  be  delayed,  material  lost,  com- 
plaints lodged  as  to  dilatoriness  in  the  matter  of  meeting  sched- 
ules, and  so  on,  ad  infinitum.  He  had  the  Irishman's  love  of 
chicanery  in  the  matter  of  morals.  If  he  could  get  at  an  en- 
emy's record  and  there  was  a  flaw  in  it,  the  facts  were  apt  to 
become  mysteriously  known  at  the  most  inconvenient  times.  He 
demanded  the  utmost  loyalty  of  those  who  worked  under  him. 
If  a  man  did  not  know  enough  instinctively  to  work  intelligently 
for  his  interests,  while  at  the  same  time  appearing  to  serve  the 
interests  of  the  house  at  large  only,  he  was  soon  dismissed  on 
one  pretext  or  another.  Intelligent  department  heads,  not  sure 
of  their  own  strength  and  seeing  which  way  the  wind  was  blow- 
ing, soon  lined  up  in  his  course.  Those  whom  he  liked  and  who 
did  his  will  prospered.  Those  whom  he  disliked  suffered  greatly 
in  their  duties,  and  were  forever  explaining  or  complaining  to 
Colfax,  who  was  not  aware  of  White's  subtlety  and  who  there- 
fore thought  them  incompetent. 

Colfax,  when  he  first  heard  of  Eugene,  was  still  cherishing 
his  dream  of  a  literary  and  artistic  primate  who  should  rank  in 
power  with  White.  He  had  not  found  him  as  yet,  for  all  the 
men  he  sincerely  admired  and  thought  fitted  for  the  position 
were  in  business  for  themselves.  He  had  sounded  one  man  after 
another,  but  to  no  satisfactory  end.  Then  it  became  necessary 
to  fill  the  position  of  advertising  manager  with  someone  who 
would  make  a  conspicuous  success  of  it,  and  he  began  to  sound 
various  authorities.  Naturally  he  looked  at  the  different  adver- 
tising men  working  for  various  publications,  and  quickly  came 


454  THE    "GENIUS" 

to  the  name  of  Eugene  Witla.  The  latter  was  rumored  to  be 
making  a  shining  success  of  his  work.  He  was  well  liked  where 
he  was.  Two  different  business  men  told  Colfax  that  they  had 
met  him  and  that  he  was  exceptionally  clever.  A  third  told  him 
of  his  record  with  Summerfield,  and  through  a  fourth  man  who 
knew  Eugene,  and  who  was  having  him  to  lunch  at  the  Hard- 
ware Club  a  few  weeks  later,  Colfax  had  a  chance  to  meet  him 
without  appearing  to  be  interested  in  him  in  any  way. 

Not  knowing  who  Colfax  was,  or  rather  very  little,  other 
than  that  he  was  president  of  this  great  rival  publishing  concern, 
Eugene  was  perfectly  free  and  easy  in  his  manner.  He  was 
never  affected  at  any  time,  decidedly  eager  to  learn  things  from 
anybody  and  supremely  good  natured. 

"So  you're  Swinton,  Scudder  and  Davis,  are  you?'1  he  said 
to  Colfax  on  introduction.  "That  trinity  must  have  shrunk 
some  to  get  condensed  into  you,  but  I  suppose  the  power  is  all 
there." 

"I  don't  know  about  that!  I  don't  know  about  that!"  ex- 
claimed Colfax  electrically.  He  was  always  ready  like  a  grey- 
hound to  run  another  a  race.  "They  tell  me  Swinton  and  Scud- 
der were  exceptionally  big  men.  If  you  have  as  much  force 
as  you  have  length  there's  nothing  the  matter  with  you,  though." 

"Oh,  I'm  all  right,"  said  Eugene,  "when  I'm  by  myself. 
These  little  men  worry  me,  though.  They  are  so  darned 
smart." 

Colfax  cackled  ecstatically.  He  liked  Eugene's  looks.  The 
latter's  manner,  easy  and  not  in  any  way  nervous  or  irritable 
but  coupled  with  a  heavenly  alertness  of  eye,  took  his  fancy.  It 
was  a  fit  companion  for  his  own  terrific  energy,  and  it  was  not 
unduly  soft  or  yielding. 

"So  you're  the  advertising  manager  of  the  North  American. 
How'd  they  ever  come  to  tie  you  down  to  that  ?" 

"They  didn't  tie  me,"  said  Eugene.  "I  just  lay  down.  But 
they  put  a  nice  fat  salary  on  top  of  me  to  keep  me  there.  I 
wouldn't  lie  down  for  anything  except  a  salary." 

He  grinned  smartly. 

Colfax  cackled. 

"Well,  my  boy,  it  doesn't  seem  to  be  hurting  your  ribs,  does 
it?  They've  not  caved  in  yet.  Ha!  Ha! — Ha!  Ha!  They've 
not,  have  they ?  Ha!  Ha!" 

Eugene  studied  this  little  man  with  great  interest.  He  was 
taken  by  his  sharp,  fierce,  examining  eye.  He  was  so  different 
from  Kalvin,  who  was  about  his  size,  but  so  much  more  quiet, 
peaceful,  dignified.  Colfax  was  electric,  noisy,  insistent,  like  a 


THE    "GENIUS'  455 

pert  jack-in-the-box;  he  seemed  to  be  nothing  but  energy.  Eu- 
gene thought  of  him  as  having  an  electric  body  coated  over  with 
some  thin  veneer  of  skin.  He  seemed  as  direct  as  a  flash  of 
lightning. 

"Doing  pretty  good  over  there,  are  you?"  he  asked.  "I've 
heard  a  little  something  about  you  from  time  to  time.  Not 
much.  Not  much.  Just  a  little.  Not  unfavorable,  though. 
Not  unfavorable." 

"I  hope  not,"  said  Eugene  easily.  He  wondered  why  Colfax 
was  so  interested  in  him.  The  latter  kept  looking  him  over 
much  as  one  might  examine  a  prize  animal.  Their  eyes  would 
meet  and  Colfax's  would  gleam  with  a  savage  but  friendly  fire. 

"Well?"  said  Eugene  to  him  finally. 

"I'm  just  thinking,  my  boy!  I'm  just  thinking!"  he  returned, 
and  that  was  all  Eugene  could  get  out  of  him. 

It  was  not  long  after  this  very  peculiar  meeting  which  stuck 
in  Eugene's  memory  that  Colfax  invited  him  over  to  his  house 
in  New  York  to  dinner.  "I  wish,"  he  wrote  one  day  not  long 
after  this  meeting,  "that  the  next  time  you  are  in  New  York 
you  would  let  me  know.  I  would  like  to  have  you  come  to  my 
house  to  dine.  You  and  I  ought  to  be  pretty  good  friends. 
There  are  a  number  of  things  I  would  like  to  talk  to  you  about." 

This  was  written  on  the  paper  of  the  United  Magazines 
Corporation,  which  had  just  been  organized  to  take  over  the 
old  company  of  Swinton,  Scudder  and  Davis,  and  was  labeled 
"The  Office  of  the  President." 

Eugene  thought  this  was  significant.  Could  Colfax  be  going 
to  make  him  an  offer  of  some  kind?  Well,  the  more  the  mer- 
rier! He  was  doing  very  well  indeed,  and  liked  Mr.  Kalvin 
very  much,  in  fact,  all  his  surroundings,  but,  as  an  offer  was  a 
testimonial  to  merit  and  could  be  shown  as  such,  he  would  not 
be  opposed  to  receiving  it.  It  might  strengthen  him  with  Kalvin 
if  it  did  nothing  else.  He  made  an  occasion  to  go  over,  firsi' 
talking  the  letter  over  with  Angela,  who  was  simply  curious 
about  the  whole  thing.  He  told  her  how  much  interested  Col- 
fax appeared  to  be  the  first  time  they  met  and  that  he  fancied 
it  might  mean  an  offer  from  the  United  Magazines  Corpora- 
tion at  some  time  or  other. 

"I'm  not  particularly  anxious  about  it,"  said  Eugene,  "but  I'd 
like  to  see  what  is  there." 

Angela  was  not  sure  that  it  was  wise  to  bother  with  it.  "It's 
a  big  firm,"  she  said,  "but  it  isn't  bigger  than  Mr.  Kalvin's,  and 
he's  been  mighty  nice  to  you.  You'd  better  not  do  anything  to 
injure  yourself  with  him." 


456  THE    "'  GENIUS' 

Eugene  thought  of  this.  It  was  sound  advice.  Still  he 
wanted  to  hear. 

"I  won't  do  anything,"  he  said.  "I  would  like  to  hear  what 
he  has  to  say,  though." 

A  little  later  he  wrote  that  he  was  coming  on  the  twentieth 
and  that  he  would  be  glad  to  take  dinner  with  Colfax. 

The  first  meeting  between  Eugene  and  Colfax  had  been  con- 
clusive so  far  as  future  friendship  was  concerned.  These  two, 
like  Eugene  and  Summerfield,  were  temperamentally  in  accord, 
though  Colfax  was  very  much  superior  to  Summerfield  in  his 
ability  to  command  men. 

This  night  when  they  met  at  dinner  at  Colfax's  house  the 
latter  was  most  cordial.  Colfax  had  invited  him  to  come  to 
his  office,  and  together  they  went  uptown  in  his  automobile.  His 
residence  was  in  upper  Fifth  Avenue,  a  new,  white  marble 
fronted  building  with  great  iron  gates  at  the  door  and  a  splendid 
entry  set  with  small  palms  and  dwarf  cedars.  Eugene  saw  at 
once  that  this  man  was  living  in  that  intense  atmosphere  of 
commercial  and  financial  rivalry  which  makes  living  in  New 
York  so  keen.  You  could  feel  the  air  of  hard,  cold  order  about 
the  place,  the  insistence  on  perfection  of  appointment,  the  com- 
pulsion toward  material  display  which  was  held  in  check  only 
by  that  sense  of  fitness,  which  knowledge  of  current  taste  and 
the  mode  in  everything  demanded.  His  automobile  was  very 
large  and  very  new,  the  latest  model,  a  great  dark  blue  affair 
which  ran  as  silently  as  a  sewing  machine.  The  footman  who 
opened  the  door  was  six  feet  tall,  dressed  in  knee  breeches  and 
a  swallow-tailed  coat.  The  valet  was  a  Japanese,  silent,  polite, 
attentive.  Eugene  was  introduced  to  Mrs.  Colfax,  a  most 
graceful  but  somewhat  self-conscious  woman.  A  French  maid 
later  presented  two  children,  a  boy  and  a  girl. 

Eugene  by  now  had  become  used  to  luxury  in  various  forms, 
and  this  house  was  not  superior  to  many  he  had  seen;  but  it 
ranked  with  the  best.  Colfax  was  most  free  in  it.  He  threw 
his  overcoat  to  the  valet  carelessly  and  tossed  his  babies  in  the 
air  by  turn,  when  they  were  presented  to  him  by  the  French 
maid.  His  wife,  slightly  taller  than  himself,  received  a  resound- 
ing smack. 

"There,  Ceta,"  he  exclaimed  (a  diminutive  for  Cecile,  as  Eu- 
gene subsequently  learned),  "how  do  you  like  that,  eh?  Meet 
Mr.  Witla.  He's  an  artist  and  an  art  director  and  an  adver- 
tising manager  and " 

"A  most  humble  person,"  put  in  Eugene  smilingly.  "Not  half 
as  bad  as  you  may  think.  His  report  is  greatly  exaggerated." 


THE    "GENIUS'  457 

Mrs.  Colfax  smiled  sweetly.  "I  discount  much  that  he  says 
at  once/'  she  returned.  "More  later.  Won't  you  come  up  into 
the  library?" 

They  ascended  together,  jesting.  Eugene  was  pleased  with 
what  he  saw.  Mrs.  Colfax  liked  him.  She  excused  herself  after 
a  little  while  and  Colfax  talked  life  in  general.  "I'm  going  to 
show  you  my  house  now,  and  after  dinner  I'm  going  to  talk  a 
little  business  to  you.  You  interest  me.  I  may  as  well  tell  you 
that." 

"Well,  you  interest  me,  Colfax,"  said  Eugene  genially,  "I 
like  you." 

"You  don't  like  me  any  more  than  I  like  you,  that's  a  sure 
thing,"  replied  the  other. 


CHAPTER  XXXIX 

» 

THE  results  of  this  evening  were  most  pleasant,  but  in  some 
ways  disconcerting.  It  became  perfectly  plain  that  Col- 
fax  was  anxious  to  have  Eugene  desert  the  Kalvin  Company  and 
come  over  to  him. 

"You  people  over  there,"  he  said  to  him  at  one  stage  of  the 
conversation,  "have  an  excellent  company,  but  it  doesn't  com- 
pare with  this  organization  which  we  are  revising.  Why,  what 
are  your  two  publications  to  our  seven?  You  have  one  emi- 
nently successful  one — the  one  you're  on — and  no  book  busi- 
ness whatsoever!  We  have  seven  publications  all  doing  excel- 
lently well,  and  a  book  business  that  is  second  to  none  in  the 
country.  You  know  that.  If  it  hadn't  been  that  the  business 
had  been  horribly  mismanaged  it  would  never  have  come  into 
my  hands  at  all.  Why,  Witla,  I  want  to  tell  you  one  little  fact 
in  connection  with  that  organization  which  will  illustrate  every- 
thing else  which  might  be  said  in  connection  with  it  before  I 
came  here!  They  were  wasting  twenty  thousand  dollars  a 
year  on  ink  alone.  We  were  publishing  a  hundred  absolutely 
useless  books  that  did  not  sell  enough  to  pay  for  the  cost  of 
printing,  let  alone  the  paper,  plates,  typework  and  cost  of  dis- 
tribution. I  think  it's  safe  to  say  we  lost  over  a  hundred  thou- 
sand dollars  a  year  that  way.  The  magazines  were  running 
down.  They  haven't  waked  up  sufficiently  yet  to  suit  me.  But 
I'm  looking  for  men.  I'm  really  looking  for  one  man  eventually 
who  will  take  charge  of  all  that  editorial  and  art  work  and  make 
it  into  something  exceptional.  He  wants  to  be  a  man  who  can 
handle  men.  If  I  can  get  the  right  man  I  will  even  include  the 
advertising  department,  for  that  really  belongs  with  the  literary 
and  art  sections.  It  depends  on  the  man." 

He  looked  significantly  at  Eugene,  who  sat  there  stroking 
his  upper  lip  with  his  hand. 

"Well,"  he  said  thoughtfully,  "that  ought  to  make  a  very 
nice  place  for  someone.  Who  have  you  in  mind  ?" 

"No  one  as  yet  that  I'm  absolutely  sure  of.  I  have  one  man 
in  mind  who  I  think  might  come  to  fill  the  position  after  he  had 
had  a  look  about  the  organization  and  a  chance  to  study  its  needs 
a  little.  It's  a  hard  position  to  hold.  It  requires  a  man  with 
imagination,  tact,  judgment.  He  would  have  to  be  a  sort  of 
vice-Colfax,  for  I  can't  give  my  attention  permanently  to  that 

458 


THE    "GENIUS"  459 

business.  I  don't  want  to.  I  have  bigger  fish  to  fry.  But  I 
want  someone  who  will  eventually  be  my  other  self  in  these 
departments,  who  can  get  along  with  Florence  White  and  the 
men  under  him  and  hold  his  own  in  his  own  world.  I  want  a 
sort  of  bi-partisan  commission  down  there — each  man  supreme 
in  his  own  realm." 

"It  sounds  interesting/'  said  Eugene  thoughtfully.  "Who's 
your  man?" 

"As  I  say,  he  isn't  quite  ready  yet,  in  my  judgment,  but  he  is 
near  it,  and  he's  the  right  man !  He's  in  this  room  now.  You're 
the  man  I'm  thinking  about,  Witla." 

"No,"  said  Eugene  quietly. 

"Yes;  you,"  replied  Coif  ax. 

"You  flatter  me,"  he  said,  with  a  deprecatory  wave  of  his 
hand.  "I'm  not  so  sure  that  he  is." 

"Oh,  yes,  he  is,  if  he  thinks  he  is!"  replied  Coif  ax  emphati- 
cally. "Opportunity  doesn't  knock  in  vain  at  a  real  man's  door. 
At  least,  I  don't  believe  it  will  knock  here  and  not  be  admitted. 
Why  the  advertising  department  of  this  business  alone  is  worth 
eighteen  thousand  dollars  a  year  to  begin  with." 

Eugene  sat  up.  He  was  getting  twelve.  Could  he  afford  to 
ignore  that  offer?  Could  the  Kalvin  Company  afford  to  pay 
him  that  much?  They  were  paying  him  pretty  well  as  it  was. 
Could  the  Kalvin  Company  offer  him  the  prospects  which  this 
company  was  offering  him? 

"What  is  more,  I  might  say,"  went  on  Colfax,  "the  general 
publishing  control  of  this  organization — the  position  of  manag- 
ing publisher,  which  I  am  going  to  create  and  which  when  you 
are  fitted  for  it  you  can  have,  will  be  worth  twenty-five  thou- 
sand dollars  a  year,  and  that  oughtn't  to  be  so  very  far  away, 
either." 

Eugene  turned  that  over  in  his  mind  without  saying  anything. 
This  offer  coming  so  emphatically  and  definitely  at  this  time 
actually  made  him  nervous  and  fearsome.  It  was  such  a  tre- 
mendous thing  to  talk  about — the  literary,  art  and  advertising 
control  of  the  United  Magazines  Corporation.  Who  was  this 
man  White?  What  was  he  like?  Would  he  be  able  to  agree 
with  him?  This  man  beside  him  was  so  hard,  so  brilliant,  so 
dynamic !  He  would  expect  so  much. 

And  then  his  work  with  Townsend  Miller  and  under  Mr. 
Kalvin.  How  much  he  had  learned  of  the  editorial  game  by 
merely  talking  and  planning  with  those  two  men !  He  had  got 
the  whole  idea  of  timely  topics,  of  big  progressive,  national 
forecasts  and  features,  of  odd  departments  and  interesting  pieces 


460  THE    "GENIUS" 

of  fiction  and  personality  studies,  from  talking  with  Miller 
alone.  Kalvin  had  made  clear  to  him  what  constituted  great 
craftsmen.  Of  course,  long  before,  he  had  suspected  just  how 
it  was,  but  in  Philadelphia  he  had  sat  in  conference  with 
Miller  and  Kalvin,  and  knew.  He  had  practically  managed 
the  former's  little  art  department  for  him  without  paying  much 
attention  to  it  either.  Couldn't  he  really  handle  this  greater 
thing  if  he  tried?  If  he  didn't,  someone  else  wTould.  Would 
the  man  who  would,  be  so  much  greater  than  himself? 

"I'm  not  anxious  that  you  should  act  hastily,"  said  Colfax 
soothingly,  after  a  little  bit,  for  he  saw  that  Eugene  was  debat- 
ing the  question  solemnly  and  that  it  was  a  severe  problem  for 
him.  "I  know  how  you  feel.  You  have  gone  into  the  Kalvin 
Company  and  you've  made  good.  They've  been  nice  to  you.  It's 
only  natural  that  they  should  be.  You  hate  to  leave.  Well, 
think  it  over.  I  won't  tempt  you  beyond  your  best  judgment. 
Think  it  over.  There's  a  splendid  chance  here.  Just  the  same, 
I  like  you,  and  I  think  you  are  the  man  to  get  away  with  it. 
Come  down  to  my  place  tomorrow  and  let  me  show  you  what 
we  have.  I  want  to  show  our  resources.  I  don't  think  you 
know  how  big  this  thing  really  is." 

"Yes,  I  do,"  replied  Eugene,  smiling.  "It  certainly  is  a  fas- 
cinating proposition.  But  I  can't  make  up  my  mind  about  it 
now.  It's  something  I  want  to  think  about.  I'd  like  to  take  my 
time,  and  I'll  let  you  know." 

"Take  all  the  time  you  want,  my  boy!  Take  all  the  time 
you  want!"  exclaimed  Colfax.  "I'll  wait  for  you  a  little  while. 
I'm  in  no  life-or-death  hurry.  This  position  can't  be  filled  sat- 
isfactorily in  a  minute.  When  you're  ready,  let  me  know  what 
you  decide.  And  now  let's  go  to  the  theatre — what  do  you 
say?" 

The  automobile  was  called,  Mrs.  Colfax  and  her  guest,  Miss 
Genier,  appeared.  There  was  an  interesting  evening  in  a  box, 
with  Eugene  talking  gaily  and  entertainingly  to  all,  and  then 
an  after-theatre  bite  at  Sherry's.  The  next  morning,  for  he 
stayed  all  night  at  Colfax's,  they  visited  the  United  Magazines 
Corporation  building  together,  and  at  noon  Eugene  returned  to 
Philadelphia. 

His  head  was  fairly  seething  and  ringing  with  all  he  had  seen 
and  heard.  Colfax  was  a  great  man,  he  thought,  greater  in 
some  respects  than  Kalvin.  He  was  more  forceful,  more  en- 
thusiastic, younger — more  like  himself,  than  Kalvin.  He  could 
never  fail,  he  was  too  rich.  He  would  make  a  success  of  this 
great  corporation — a  tremendous  success — and  if  he  went  he 


THE    "GENIUS'  461 

might  help  make  it  with  him.  What  a  thing  that  would  be! 
Very  different  from  working  for  a  corporation  with  whose  suc- 
cess he  had  never  had  anything  to  do.  Should  he  ignore  this 
offer?  New  York,  a  true  art  and  literary  standing;  a  great 
executive  and  social  standing;  fame;  money — all  these  were 
calling.  Why,  on  eighteen  or  twenty-five  thousand  he  could 
have  a  splendid  studio  apartment  of  his  own,  say  on  Riverside 
Drive;  he  could  entertain  magnificently;  he  could  keep  an  auto- 
mobile without  worrying  about  it.  Angela  would  cease  feeling 
that  they  had  to  be  careful.  It  would  be  the  apex  of  lieuten- 
antship  for  him.  Beyond  that  he  would  take  stock  in  the  com- 
pany, or  a  business  of  his  own.  What  a  long  distance  he  had 
come  from  the  days  when,  here  as  a  boy,  he  had  walked  the 
streets,  wondering  where  he  would  find  a  $3  room,  and  when  as 
an  art  failure  he  carried  his  paintings  about  and  sold  them  for 
ten  and  fifteen  dollars.  Dear  Heaven,  what  peculiar  tricks  for- 
tune could  play! 

The  discussion  with  Angela  of  this  proposition  led  to  some 
additional  uncertainty,  for  although  she  was  greatly  impressed 
with  what  Colfax  offered,  she  was  afraid  Eugene  might  be 
making  a  mistake  in  leaving  Kalvin.  The  latter  had  been  so 
nice  to  Eugene.  He  had  never  associated  with  him  in  any  inti- 
mate way,  but  he  and  Angela  had  been  invited  to  his  home  on 
several  formal  occasions,  and  Eugene  had  reported  that  Kalvin 
was  constantly  giving  him  good  advice.  His  attitude  in  the 
office  was  not  critical  but  analytic  and  considerate. 

"He's  been  mighty  nice  to  me,"  Eugene  said  to  her  one  morn- 
ing at  breakfast;  "they  all  have.  It's  a  shame  to  leave  him. 
And  yet,  now  that  I  look  at  it,  I  can  see  very  plainly  that  there 
is  never  going  to  be  the  field  here  that  there  will  be  with  the 
United .  Company.  They  have  the  publications  and  the  book 
business,  and  the  Kalvin  Company  hasn't  and  won't  have.  Kal- 
vin is  too  old.  They're  in  New  York,  too;  that's  one  thing  I 
like  about  it.  I'd  like  to  live  in  New  York  again.  Wouldn't 
you?" 

"It  would  be  fine,"  said  Angela,  who  had  never  really  cared 
for  Philadelphia  and  who  saw  visions  of  tremendous  superiority 
in  this  situation.  Philadelphia  had  always  seemed  a  little  out 
of  the  way  of  things  after  New  York  and  Paris.  Only  Eu- 
gene's good  salary  and  the  comforts  they  had  experienced  here 
had  made  it  tolerable.  "Why  don't  you  speak  to  Mr.  Kalvin 
and  tell  him  just  what  Mr.  Colfax  says,"  she  asked.  "It  may 
be  that  he'll  offer  to  raise  your  salary  so  much  that  you'll  want 
to  stay  when  he  hears  of  this." 


462  THE    "GENIUS" 

"No  danger,"  replied  Eugene.  "He  may  raise  it  a  bit,  but 
he  never  can  pay  me  twenty-five  thousand  dollars  a  year.  There 
isn't  any  reason  for  paying  it.  It  takes  a  corporation  like  the 
United  to  do  it.  There  isn't  a  man  in  our  place  gets  that,  un- 
less it  is  Fredericks.  Besides,  I  could  never  be  anything  more 
here,  or  much  more,  than  advertising  manager.  Miller  has  that 
editorial  job  sewed  up.  He  ought  to  have  it,  too,  he's  a  good 
man.  This  thing  that  Colfax  offers  lets  me  out  into  a  new 
field.  I  don't  want  to  be  an  advertising  manager  all  my  days  if 
I  can  help  it!" 

"I  don't  want  you  to  be,  either,  Eugene,"  sighed  Angela. 
"It's  a  shame  you  can't  quit  entirely  and  take  up  your  art  work. 
I've  always  thought  that  if  you  were  to  stop  now  and  go  to 
painting  you  would  make  a  success  of  it.  There's  nothing  the 
matter  with  your  nerves  now.  It's  just  a  question  of  whether 
we  want  to  live  more  simply  for  a  while  and  let  you  work  at 
that.  I'm  sure  you'd  make  a  big  success  of  it." 

"Art  doesn't  appeal  to  me  so  much  as  it  did  once,"  replied 
Eugene.  "I've  lived  too  well  and  I  know  a  lot  more  about  liv- 
ing than  I  once  did.  Where  could  I  make  twelve  thousand  a 
year  painting?  If  I  had  a  hundred  thousand  or  a  couple  of 
hundred  thousand  laid  aside,  it  would  be  a  different  thing,  but 
I  haven't.  All  we  have  is  that  Pennsylvania  Railroad  stock  and 
those  lots  in  Montclair  eating  their  merry  little  heads  off  in 
taxes,  and  that  Steel  common  stock.  If  we  go  back  to  New 
York  we  ought  to  build  on  that  Montclair  property,  and  rent 
it  if  we  don't  want  to  live  in  it.  If  I  quit  now  we  wouldn't 
have  more  than  two  thousand  dollars  a  year  outside  of  what  I 
could  earn,  and  what  sort  of  a  life  can  you  live  on  that?" 

Angela  saw,  disappearing  under  those  circumstances,  the 
rather  pleasant  world  of  entertainment  in  which  they  were  dis- 
porting themselves.  Art  distinction  might  be  delightful,  but 
would  it  furnish  such  a  table  as  they  were  sitting  at  this  morning? 
Would  they  have  as  nice  a  home  and  as  many  friends  ?  Art  was 
glorious,  but  would  they  have  as  many  rides  and  auto  trips  as 
they  had  now?  Would  she  be  able  to  dress  as  nicely?  It  took 
money  to  produce  a  variety  of  clothing — house,  street,  evening, 
morning  and  other  wear.  Hats  at  thirty-five  and  forty  dollars 
were  not  in  the  range  of  artists'  wives,  as  a  rule.  Did  she  want 
to  go  back  to  a  simpler  life  for  his  art's  sake?  Wouldn't  it  be 
better  to  have  him  go  with  Mr.  Colfax  and  make  $25,000  a 
year  for  a  while  and  then  have  him  retire? 

"You'd  better  talk  to  Mr.  Kalvin,"  she  counseled.     "You'll 


THE    "GENIUS'  463 

have  to  do  that,  anyhow.  See  what  he  says.  After  that  you 
can  decide  what  you  must  do." 

Eugene  hesitated,  but  after  thinking  it  all  over  he  decided 
that  he  would. 

One  morning  not  long  after,  when  he  met  Mr.  Kalvin  in  the 
main  hall  on  the  editorial  floor,  he  said,  "I'd  like  to  talk  to  you 
for  a  few  moments  some  time  today  alone,  Mr.  Kalvin,  if  you 
can  spare  me  the  time." 

"Certainly.  I'm  not  busy  now,"  returned  the  president. 
"Come  right  down.  What  is  it  you  want  to  see  me  about?" 

"Well,  I'll  tell  you,"  said  Eugene,  when  they  had  reached  the 
former's  office  and  he  had  closed  the  door.  "I've  had  an  offer 
that  I  feel  that  I  ought  to  talk  to  you  about.  It's  a  pretty  fasci- 
nating proposition  and  it's  troubling  me.  I  owe  it  to  you  as 
well  as  to  myself  to  speak  about  it." 

"Yes;  what  is  it?"  said  Kalvin  considerately. 

"Mr.  Colfax  of  the  United  Magazines  Corporation  came  to 
me  not  long  ago  and  wanted  to  know  if  I  would  not  come  with 
him.  He  offers  me  eighteen  thousand  dollars  a  year  as  advertis- 
ing manager  to  begin  with,  and  a  chance  to  take  charge  of  all 
the  art  and  editorial  ends  as  well  a  little  later  at  twenty-five 
thousand  dollars.  He  calls  it  the  managing-publishing  end  of 
the  business.  I've  been  thinking  of  it  seriously,  for  I've  handled 
the  art  and  advertising  ends  here  and  at  the  Summerfield  Com- 
pany, and  I  have  always  imagined  that  I  knew  something  of  the 
book  and  magazine  business.  I  know  it's  a  rather  large  propo- 
sition, but  I'm  not  at  all  sure  that  I  couldn't  handle  it.". 

Mr.  Kalvin  listened  quietly.  He  saw  what  Coif  ax's  scheme 
was  and  liked  it  as  a  proposition.  It  was  a  good  idea,  but  needed 
an  exceptional  man  for  the  position.  Was  Eugene  the  man  ?  He 
wasn't  sure  of  that,  and  yet  perchance  he  might  be.  Colfax,  he 
thought,  was  a  man  of  excellent  financial  if  not  publishing  judg- 
ment. He  might,  if  he  could  get  the  proper  person,  make  an 
excellent  success  of  his  business.  Eugene  interested  him,  per- 
haps more  at  first  flash  than  he  would  later.  This  man  before 
him  had  a  most  promising  appearance.  He  was  clean,  quick, 
with  an  alert  mind  and  eye.  He  could  see  how,  because  of  Eu- 
gene's success  here,  Colfax  was  thinking  of  him  being  even  more 
exceptional  than  he  was.  He  was  a  good  man,  a  fine  man,  under 
direction.  Would  Colfax  have  the  patience,  the  interest,  the 
sympathy,  to  work  with  and  understand  him  ? 

"Now,  let's  think  about  that  a  little,  Witla,"  he  said  quietly. 
"It's  a  flattering  offer.  You'd  be  foolish  if  you  didn't  give  it 


464  THE   "  GENIUS' 

careful  consideration.  Do  you  know  anything  about  the  organi- 
zation of  that  place  over  there  ?" 

"No,"  replied  Eugene,  "nothing  except  what  I  learned  by 
casually  going  over  it  with  Mr.  Colfax." 

"Do  you  know  much  about  Colfax  as  a  man?" 

"Very  little.  I've  only  met  him  twice.  He's  forceful,  dra- 
matic, a  man  with  lots  of  ideas.  I  understand  he's  very  rich, 
three  or  four  millions,  someone  told  me." 

Kalvin's  hand  moved  indifferently.    "Do  you  like  him?" 

"Well,  I  can't  say  yet  absolutely  whether  I  do  or  don't.  He 
interests  me  a  lot.  He's  wonderfully  dynamic.  I'm  sure  I'm 
favorably  impressed  with  him." 

"And  he  wants  to  give  you  charge  eventually  of  all  the  maga- 
zines and  books,  the  publishing  end?" 

"So  he  says,"  said  Eugene. 

"I'd  go  a  little  slow  if  I  wTere  saddling  myself  with  that  re- 
sponsibility. I'd  want  to  be  sure  that  I  knew  all  about  it.  You 
want  to  remember,  Witla,  that  running  one  department  under 
the  direction  and  with  the  sympathetic  assistance  and  considera- 
tion of  someone  over  you  is  very  different  from  running  four  or 
five  departments  on  your  own  responsibility  and  with  no  one 
over  you  except  someone  who  wants  intelligent  guidance  from 
you.  Colfax,  as  I  understand  him,  isn't  a  publisher,  either  by 
tendency  or  training  or  education.  He's  a  financier.  He'll 
want  you,  if  you  take  that  position,  to  tell  him  how  it  shall  be 
done.  Now,  unless  you  know  a  great  deal  about  the  publishing 
business,  you  have  a  difficult  task  in  that.  I  don't  want  to  ap- 
pear to  be  throwing  cold  water  on  your  natural  ambition  to  get 
up  in  the  world.  You're  entitled  to  go  higher  if  you  can.  No 
one  in  your  circle  of  acquaintances  would  wish  you  more  luck 
than  I  will  if  you  decide  to  go.  I  want  you  to  think  carefully 
of  what  you  are  doing.  Where  you  are  here  you  are  perfectly 
safe,  or  as  nearly  safe  as  any  man  is  who  behaves  himself  and 
maintains  his  natural  force  and  energy  can  be.  It's  only  natural 
that  you  should  expect  more  money  in  the  face  of  this  offer,  and 
I  shall  be  perfectly  willing  to  give  it  to  you.  I  intended,  as  you 
possibly  expected,  to  do  somewhat  better  for  you  by  January. 
I'll  say  now  that  if  you  want  to  stay  here  you  can  have  fourteen 
thousand  now  and  possibly  sixteen  thousand  in  a  year  or  a  year 
and  a  half  from  now.  I  don't  want  to  overload  this  department 
with  what  I  consider  an  undue  salary.  I  think  sixteen  thousand 
dollars,  when  it  is  paid,  will  be  high  for  the  work  that  is  done 
here,  but  you're  a  good  man  and  I'm  perfectly  willing  to  pay  it 
to  you. 


THE    "GENIUS"  465 

"The  thing  for  you  to  do  is  to  make  up  your  mind  whether 
this  proposition  which  I  now  make  you  is  safer  and  more  in  ac- 
cord with  your  desires  than  the  one  Mr.  Colfax  makes  you. 
With  him  your  eighteen  thousand  begins  at  once.  With  me  six- 
teen thousand  is  a  year  away,  anyhow.  With  him  you  have 
promise  of  an  outlook  which  is  much  more  glittering  than  any 
you  can  reasonably  hope  for  here,  but  you  want  to  remember 
that  the  difficulties  will  be,  of  course,  proportionately  greater. 
You  know  something  about  me  by  now.  You  still — and  don't 
think  I  want  to  do  him  any  injustice;  I  don't — have  to  learn 
about  Mr.  Colfax.  Now,  I'd  advise  you  to  think  carefully  be- 
fore you  act.  Study  the  situation  over  there  before  you  accept 
it.  The  United  Magazines  Corporation  is  a  great  concern.  I 
have  no  doubt  that  under  Mr.  Colfax's  management  it  has  a 
brilliant  future  in  store  for  it.  He  is  an  able  man.  If  you 
finally  decide  to  go,  come  and  tell  me  and  there  will  be  no  hard 
feelings  one  way  or  the  other.  If  you  decide  to  stay,  the  new 
salary  arrangement  goes  into  effect  at  once.  As  a  matter  of  fact, 
I  might  as  well  have  Mr.  Fredericks  credit  that  up  to  you  so 
that  you  can  say  that  you  have  drawn  that  sum  here.  It  won't 
do  you  any  harm.  Then  we  can  run  along  as  before.  I  know 
it  isn't  good  business  as  a  rule  to  try  and  keep  a  man  who  has 
been  poisoned  by  a  bigger  offer,  and  because  I  know  that  is  the 
reason  wrhy  I  am  only  offering  you  fourteen  thousand  dollars 
this  year.  I  want  to  be  sure  that  you  are  sure  that  you  want 
to  stay.  See?" 

He  smiled. 

Eugene  arose.  "I  see,"  he  said.  "You  are  one  of  the  best 
men  I  have  ever  known,  Mr.  Kalvin.  You  have  constantly 
treated  me  with  more  consideration  than  I  ever  expected  to  re- 
ceive anywhere.  It  has  been  a  pleasure  and  a  privilege  to  work 
for  you.  If  I  stay,  it  will  be  because  I  want  to — because  I  value 
your  friendship." 

"Well,"  said  Kalvin  quietly,  "that's  very  nice,  I'm  sure,  and 
I  appreciate  it.  But  don't  let  your  friendship  for  me  or  your 
sense  of  gratitude  stop  you  from  doing  something  you  think  you 
ought  to  do.  Go  ahead  if  you  feel  like  it.  I  won't  feel  the  least 
bit  angry  with  you.  I'll  feel  sorry,  but  that's  neither  here  nor 
there.  Life  is  a  constant  condition  of  readjustment,  and  every 
good  business  man  knows  it." 

He  took  Eugene's  extended  hand. 

"Good  luck,"  he  said,  "whatever  you  do" — his  favorite  ex- 
pression. 


CHAPTER  XL 

THE  upshot  of  Eugene's  final  speculation  was  that  he  ac- 
cepted the  offer  of  the  United  Magazines  Corporation  and 
left  Mr.  Kalvin.  Colfax  had  written  one  day  to  his  house  ask- 
ing him  what  he  thought  he  would  do  about  it.  The  more  he 
had  turned  it  over  in  his  mind,  the  more  it  had  grown  in  attrac- 
tion. The  Colfax  company  was  erecting  a  tremendous  building, 
eighteen  stories  high,  in  the  heart  of  the  middle  business  district 
in  New  York  near  Union  Square,  to  house  all  their  departments. 
Colfax  had  said  at  the  time  Eugene  took  dinner  with  him  that 
the  sixteenth,  seventeenth  and  eighteenth  floors  would  be  devoted 
to  the  editorial,  publication,  circulation,  art,  and  advertising  de- 
partments. He  had  asked  Eugene  what  he  had  thought  would 
be  a  good  floor  arrangement,  and  the  latter,  with  his  usual  facil- 
ity for  scheming  such  things,  had  scratched  on  a  piece  of  paper 
a  tentative  layout  for  the  various  departments.  He  had  put  the 
editorial  and  art  departments  on  the  topmost  floor,  giving  the 
publisher,  whoever  he  might  eventually  prove  to  be,  a  command- 
ing position  in  a  central  room  on  the  western  side  of  the  build- 
ing which  overlooked  all  the  city  between  the  Square  and  Hud- 
son River,  and  showed  that  magnificent  body  of  water  as  a 
panorama  for  the  eye  to  feast  upon.  He  had  put  the  advertising 
and  some  overflow  editorial  rooms  on  the  seventeenth  floor,  and 
the  circulation  with  its  attendant  mailing  and  cabinet  record 
rooms  on  the  sixteenth.  The  publisher's  and  editor's  rooms  he 
laid  out  after  an  old  Flemish  scheme  he  had  long  had  in  mind, 
in  which  green,  dark  blue,  blood-red  and  black  walnut  shades 
contrasted  richly  with  the  flood  of  light  which  would  be  avail- 
able. 

"You  might  as  well  do  this  thing  right  if  you  do  it  at  all,"  he 
had  said  to  Colfax.  "Nearly  all  the  editorial  offices  I  have  ever 
seen  have  been  the  flimsiest  makeshifts.  A  rich-looking  editorial, 
art  and  advertising  department  would  help  your  company  a 
great  deal.  It  has  advertising  value." 

He  recalled  as  he  spoke  Summerfield's  theory  that  a  look  of 
prosperity  was  about  the  most  valuable  asset  a  house  could  have. 

Colfax  agreed  with  him,  and  said  when  the  time  came  that 
he  wished  Eugene  would  do  him  the  favor  to  come  and  look  the 
thing  over.  "I  have  two  good  architects  on  the  job,"  he  ex- 

466 


THE   "GENIUS'  467 

plained,  "but  I  would  rather  trust  your  ideas  as  to  how  those 
rooms  should  be  laid  out." 

When  he  was  considering  this  final  call  for  a  decision  he 
was  thinking  how  this  floor  would  look — how  rich  it  would  be. 
Eventually,  if  he  succeeded,  his  office  would  be  the  most  sump- 
tuous thing  in  it.  He  would  be  the  most  conspicuous  figure  in 
the  great,  new  building,  apart  from  Colfax  himself. 

Thoughts  of  this  kind,  which  ought  to  have  had  but  very  little 
share  in  any  commercial  speculation,  were  nevertheless  upper- 
most in  Eugene's  mind ;  for  he  was  not  a  business  man — he  was 
primarily  an  artist,  and  for  all  his  floundering  round  in  the 
commercial  world  he  remained  an  artist  still.  His  sense  of  his 
coming  dignity  and  standing  before  the  world  was  almost  greater 
than  his  sense  of  the  terrifying  responsibility  which  it  involved. 
Colfax  was  a  hard  man,  he  knew,  harder  even  than  Summerfield, 
for  he  talked  less  and  acted  more;  but  this  did  not  sink  into 
Eugene's  consciousness  sufficiently  to  worry  him.  He  fancied 
he  was  a  strong  man,  able  to  hold  his  own  anywhere. 

Angela  was  really  not  very  much  opposed  to  the  change,  though 
her  natural  conservatism  made  her  worry  and  hesitate  to  approve. 
It  was  a  great  step  forward  if  Eugene  succeeded,  but  if  he  failed 
it  would  be  such  a  loss. 

"Colfax  has  so  much  faith  in  me,"  he  told  her.  "He's  con- 
vinced that  I  can  do  it,  and  faith  like  that  is  a  great  help.  I'd 
like  to  try  it,  anyhow.  It  can't  do  me  any  harm.  If  I  think  I 
can't  handle  the  publishing  proposition  I'll  stick  to  the  advertis- 
ing end." 

"All  right/'  said  Angela,  "but  I  scarcely  know  what  to  ad- 
vise. They've  been  so  nice  to  you  over  here." 

"I'll  try  it,"  said  Eugene  determinedly.  "Nothing  venture, 
nothing  have,"  and  he  informed  Kalvin  the  same  day. 

The  latter  looked  at  him  solemnly,  his  keen  gray  eyes  con- 
templating the  situation  from  all  points  of  view.  "Well,  Eu- 
gene," he  said,  "you're  shouldering  a  great  responsibility.  It's 
difficult.  Think  carefully  of  everything  that  you  do.  I'm  sorry 
to  see  you  go.  Good-bye." 

He  had  the  feeling  that  Eugene  was  making  a  mistake — that 
he  would  do  better  to  rest  a  while  where  he  was ;  but  persuasion 
was  useless.  It  would  only  give  Eugene  the  notion  that  he  was 
more  important  than  he  was — make  matters  more  difficult  in  the 
future. 

Kalvin  had  heard  a  number  of  things  concerning  Colfax  re- 
cently, and  he  fancied  that  Eugene  might  find  it  hard  to  deal 
with  him  later.  The  general  impression  was  that  he  was  sub- 


468  THE    "GENIUS" 

ject  to  sudden  likes  and  dislikes  which  did  not  bear  the  test  of 
time.  He  was  said  to  be  scarcely  human  enough  to  be  the  ef- 
fective head  of  a  great  working  corporation. 

The  truth  was  that  this  general  opinion  was  quite  correct. 
Colfax  was  as  hard  as  steel  but  of  a  smiling  and  delightful  pres- 
ence to  those  he  fancied.  Vanity  was  really  his  other  name,  and 
ambition  with  him  knew  no  bounds.  He  hoped  to  make  a  tre- 
mendous success  of  his  life,  to  be  looked  up  to  as  an  imposing 
financier,  and  he  wanted  men — only  strong  men  about  him.  Eu- 
gene seemed  to  Colfax  to  be  a  strong  man,  and  the  day  he 
finally  communicated  with  him  saying  that  he  thought  that  he 
would  accept  his  offer  but  that  he  wished  to  talk  to  him  further, 
Colfax  threw  his  hat  up  in  the  air,  slapped  his  sitie  partner  White 
on  the  back,  and  exclaimed:  "Wheel  Florrie!  There's  a  trick 
I've  scored  for  this  corporation.  There's  a  man,  unless  I  am 
greatly  mistaken,  will  do  something  here.  He's  young  but  he's 
all  right.  He's  got  the  looks  on  you  and  me,  Florrie,  but  we 
can  stand  that,  can't  we?" 

White  eyed  him,  with  a  show  of  joy  and  satisfaction  which 
was  purely  simulated.  He  had  seen  many  editors  and  many 
advertising  men  in  his  time.  To  his  judgment  they  were  nearly 
all  lightweights,  men  who  were  easily  satisfied  with  the  little 
toy  wherewith  he  or  anyone  might  decide  to  gratify  their  vanity. 
This  was  probably  another  case  in  point,  but  if  a  real  publisher 
were  coming  in  here  it  would  not  be  so  well  with  him.  He 
might  attempt  to  crowd  in  on  his  authority  or  at  least  divide  it 
with  him.  That  did  not  appeal  to  his  personal  vanity.  It 
really  put  a  stumbling  block  in  his  path,  for  he  hoped  to  rule 
here  some  day  alone.  Why  was  it  that  Colfax  was  so  eager  to 
have  the  authority  in  this  house  divided?  Was  it  because  he 
was  somewhat  afraid  of  him?  He  thought  so,  and  he  was  ex- 
ceedingly close  to  the  truth  when  he  thought  so. 

"Florrie's  a  good  lieutenant,"  Colfax  said  to  himself,  "but  he 
needs  to  be  counterbalanced  here  by  someone  who  will  represent 
the  refinements  and  that  intellectual  superiority  which  the  world 
respects." 

He  wanted  this  refinement  and  intellectual  superiority  to  be 
popular  with  the  public,  and  to  produce  results  in  the  shape  of 
increased  circulation  for  his  magazines  and  books.  These  two 
would  then  act  as  checks  each  to  the  other,  thus  preventing  the 
house  from  becoming  overweighted  in  either  direction.  Then  he 
could  drive  this  team  as  a  grand  master — the  man  who  had  se- 
lected both,  whose  ideas  they  represented,  and  whose  judgment 


THE    "GENIUS"  469 

they  respected.  The  world  of  finance  and  trade  would  know 
they  were  nothing  without  him. 

What  Eugene  thought  and  what  White  thought  of  this 
prospective  situation  was  that  the  other  would  naturally  be  the 
minor  figure,  and  that  he  under  Coif  ax  would  be  the  shining 
light.  Eugene  was  convinced  that  the  house  without  proper 
artistic  and  intellectual  dominance  was  nothing.  White  was 
convinced  that  without  sane  commercial  management  it  was  a 
failure  and  that  this  was  the  thing  to  look  to.  Money  could  buy 
brains. 

Colfax  introduced  Eugene  to  White  on  the  morning  he  ar- 
rived to  take  charge,  for  on  the  previous  occasions  when  he  had 
been  there  White  was  absent.  The  two  looked  at  each  other 
and  immediately  suspended  judgment,  for  both  were  able  men. 
Eugene  saw  White  as  an  interesting  type — tall,  leathery,  swag- 
gering, a  back-street  bully  evolved  into  the  semblance  of  a  gentle- 
man. White  saw  in  Eugene  a  nervous,  refined,  semi-emotional 
literary  and  artistic  type  who  had,  however,  a  curious  versatility 
and  virility  not  common  among  those  whom  he  had  previously 
encountered.  He  was  exceedingly  forceful  but  not  poised.  That 
he  could  eventually  undermine  him  if  he  could  not  dominate  him 
he  did  not  doubt.  Still  he  was  coming  in  with  the  backing  of 
Colfax  and  a  great  reputation,  and  it  might  not  be  easy.  Eugene 
made  him  feel  nervous.  He  wondered  as  he  looked  at  him 
whether  Colfax  would  really  make  him  general  literary,  artistic 
and  advertising  administrator,  or  whether  he  would  remain 
simply  advertising  manager  as  he  now  entered.  Colfax  had  not 
accepted  Eugene  for  more  than  that. 

"Here  he  is,  Florrie,"  Colfax  had  said  of  Eugene,  in  intro- 
ducing him  to  White.  "This  is  the  man  I've  been  talking  about. 
Witla — Mr.  White.  White — Mr.  Witla.  You  two  want  to 
get  together  for  the  good  of  this  house  in  the  future.  What  do 
you  think  of  each  other?" 

Eugene  had  previously  noted  the  peculiarity  of  this  rowdy, 
rah !  rah !  attitude  on  the  part  of  Colfax.  He  seemed  to  have  no 
sense  of  the  conventions  of  social  address  and  conference  at  any 
time. 

"Now,  by  God,"  Colfax  exclaimed,  striking  his  right  fist 
against  his  left  palm,  "unless  I  am  greatly  mistaken,  this  house 
is  going  to  begin  to  move!  I'm  not  positive  that  I  have  the  man 
I  want,  but  I  think  I  have.  White,  let's  stroll  around  and 
introduce  him." 

White  swaggered  to  the  office  door. 


470  THE    "GENIUS" 

"Sure,"  he  said  quietly.  "An  exceptional  man,"  he  said  to 
himself. 

Colfax  was  almost  beside  himself  with  satisfaction,  for  he  was 
subject  to  emotional  flushes  which,  however,  related  to  self- 
aggrandizement  only.  He  walked  with  a  great  stride  (little  as 
he  was),  which  was  his  wont  wrhen  he  was  feeling  particularly 
satisfied.  He  talked  in  a  loud  voice,  for  he  wanted  everyone  to 
know  that  he,  Hiram  Colfax,  was  about  and  as  forceful  as  the 
lord  of  so  great  an  institution  should  be.  He  could  yell  and 
scream  something  like  a  woman  in  a  paroxysm  of  rage  when  he 
was  thwarted  or  irritated.  Eugene  did  not  know  that  as  yet. 

"Here's  one  of  the  printing  floors,"  he  said  to  Eugene,  throw- 
ing open  a  door  which  revealed  a  room  full  of  thundering  presses 
of  giant  size.  "Where's  Dodson,  boy?  Where's  Dodson?  Tell 
him  to  come  here.  He's  foreman  of  our  printing  department,"  he 
added,  turning  to  Eugene,  as  the  printer's  devil,  who  had  been 
working  at  a  press,  scurried  away  to  find  his  master.  "I  told 
you,  I  guess,  that  we  have  thirty  of  these  presses.  There  are 
four  more  floors  just  like  this." 

"So  you  did,"  replied  Eugene.  "It  certainly  is  a  great  con- 
cern. I  can  see  that  the  possibilities  of  a  thing  like  this  are 
almost  limitless." 

"Limitless — I  should  say!  It  depends  on  what  you  can  do 
with  this,"  and  he  tapped  Eugene's  forehead.  "If  you  do  your 
part  right,  and  he  does  his" — turning  to  White — "there  won't 
be  any  limit  to  what  this  house  can  do.  That  remains  to  be 
seen." 

Just  then  Dodson  came  bustling  up,  a  shrewd,  keen  henchman 
of  White's,  and  looked  at  Eugene  curiously. 

"Dodson,  Mr.  Witla,  the  new  advertising  manager.  He's 
going  to  try  to  help  pay  for  all  this  wasteful  presswork  you're 
doing.  Witla,  Mr.  Dodson,  manager  of  the  printing  depart- 
ment." 

The  two  men  shook  hands.  Eugene  felt  in  a  way  as  though 
he  were  talking  to  an  underling,  and  did  not  pay  very  definite 
attention  to  him.  Dodson  resented  his  attitude  somewhat,  but 
gave  no  sign.  His  loyalty  was  to  White,  and  he  felt  himself 
perfectly  safe  under  that  man's  supervision. 

The  next  visit  was  to  the  composing  room  where  a  vast  army 
of  men  were  working  away  at  type  racks  and  linotype  machines. 
A  short,  fat,  ink-streaked  foreman  in  a  green  striped  apron  that 
looked  as  though  it  might  have  been  made  of  bed  ticking  came 
forward  to  greet  them  ingratiatingly.  He  was  plainly  nervous 


THE    "GENIUS'  471 

at  their  presence,  and  withdrew  his  hand  when  Eugene  offered 
to  take  it. 

"It's  too  dirty,"  he  said.  "I'll  take  the  will  for  the  deed,  Mr. 
Witla." 

More  explanations  and  laudations  of  the  extent  of  the  busi- 
ness followed. 

Then  came  the  circulation  department  with  its  head,  a  tall 
dark  man  who  looked  solemnly  at  Eugene,  uncertain  as  to  what 
place  he  was  to  have  in  the  organization  and  uncertain  as  to 
what  attitude  he  should  ultimately  have  to  take.  White  was 
"butting  into  his  affairs,"  as  he  told  his  wife,  and  he  did  not 
know  where  it  would  end.  He  had  heard  rumors  to  the  effect 
that  there  was  to  be  a  new  man  soon  who  was  to  have  great 
authority  over  various  departments.  Was  this  he? 

There  came  next  the  editors  of  the  various  magazines,  who 
viewed  this  triumphal  procession  with  more  or  less  contempt, 
for  to  them  both  Colfax  and  White  were  raw,  uncouth  upstarts 
blazoning  their  material  superiority  in  loud-mouthed  phrases. 
Colfax  talked  too  loud  and  was  too  vainglorious.  White  was 
too  hard,  bitter  and  unreasoning.  They  hated  them  both  with 
a  secret  hate  but  there  was  no  escaping  their  domination.  The 
need  of  living  salaries  held  all  in  obsequious  subjection. 

"Here's  Mr.  Marchwood,"  Colfax  said  inconsiderately  of  the 
editor  of  the  International  Review.  "He  thinks  he's  making 
a  wonderful  publication  of  that,  but  we  don't  know  whether 
he  is  yet  or  not." 

Eugene  winced  for  Marchwood.  He  was  so  calm,  so  refined, 
so  professional. 

"I  suppose  we  can  only  go  by  the  circulation  department," 
he  replied  simply,  attracted  by  Eugene's  sympathetic  smile. 

"That's  all!     That's  all!"  exclaimed  Colfax. 

"That  is  probably  true,"  said  Eugene,  "but  a  good  thing  ought 
to  be  as  easily  circulated  as  a  poor  one.  At  least  it's  worth 
trying." 

Mr.  Marchwood  smiled.  It  was  a  bit  of  intellectual  kindness 
in  a  world  of  cruel  comment. 

"It's  a  great  institution,"  said  Eugene  finally,  on  reaching 
the  president's  office  again.  "I'll  begin  now  and  see  what  I  can 
do." 

"Good  luck,  my  boy.  Good  luck!"  said  Colfax  loudly.  "I'm 
laying  great  stress  on  what  you're  going  to  do,  you  know." 

"Don't  lean  too  hard,"  returned  Eugene.  "Remember,  I'm 
just  one  in  a  great  organization." 


472  THE    "GENIUS" 

"I  know,  I  know,  but  the  one  is  all  I  need  up  there — the 
one,  see?" 

"Yes,  yes,"  laughed  Eugene,  "cheer  up.  We'll  be  able  to 
do  a  little  something,  I'm  sure." 

"A  great  man,  that,"  Colfax  declared  to  White  as  he  went 
away.  "The  real  stuff  in  that  fellow,  no  flinching  there  you 
notice.  He  knows  how  to  think.  Now,  Florrie,  unless  I  miss 
my  guess  you  and  I  are  going  to  get  somewhere  with  this 
thing." 

White  smiled  gloomily,  almost  cynically.  He  was  not  so 
sure.  Eugene  was  pretty  good,  but  he  was  obviously  too  inde- 
pendent, too  artistic,  to  be  really  stable  and  dependable.  He 
would  never  run  to  him  for  advice,  but  he  would  probably  make 
mistakes.  He  might  lose  his  head.  What  must  he  do  to  offset 
this  new  invasion  of  authority ?  Discredit  him?  Certainly.  But 
he  needn't  worry  about  that.  Eugene  would  do  something.  He 
would  make  mistakes  of  some  kind.  He  felt  sure  of  it.  He  was 
almost  positive  of  it. 


CHAPTER   XLI 

THE  opening  days  of  this  their  second  return  to  New  York 
were  a  period  of  great  joy  to  Angela.  Unlike  that  first 
time  when  she  was  returning  after  seven  months  of  loneliness  and 
unhappiness  to  a  sick  husband  and  a  gloomy  outlook,  she  was 
now  looking  forward  to  what,  in  spite  of  her  previous  doubts, 
was  a  glorious  career  of  dignity,  prosperity  and  abundance. 
Eugene  was  such  an  important  man  now.  His  career  was  so 
well  marked  and  in  a  way  almost  certified.  They  had  a 
good  bit  of  money  in  the  bank.  Their  investments  in  stocks, 
on  which  they  obtained  a  uniform  rate  of  interest  of  about  seven 
per  cent.,  aggregated  $30,000.  They  had  two  lots,  two  hundred 
by  two  hundred,  in  Montclair,  which  were  said  to  be  slowly  in- 
creasing in  value  and  which  Eugene  now  estimated  to  be  worth 
about  six  thousand.  He  was  talking  about  investing  what  ad- 
ditional money  he  might  save  in  stocks  bearing  better  interest  or 
some  sound  commercial  venture.  When  the  proper  time  came, 
a  little  later,  he  might  even  abandon  the  publishing  field  entirely 
and  renew  his  interest  in  art.  He  was  certainly  getting  near 
the  possibility  of  this. 

The  place  which  they  selected  for  their  residence  in  New  York 
was  in  a  new  and  very  sumptuous  studio  apartment  building  on 
Riverside  Drive  near  Seventy-ninth  Street,  where  Eugene  had 
long  fancied  he  would  like  to  live.  This  famous  thoroughfare 
and  show  place  with  its  restricted  park  atmosphere,  its  magnifi- 
cent and  commanding  view  of  the  lordly  Hudson,  its  wondrous 
woods  of  color  and  magnificent  sunsets  had  long  taken  his  eye. 
When  he  had  first  come  to  New  York  it  had  been  his  delight  to 
stroll  here  watching  the  stream  of  fashionable  equipages  pour  out 
towards  Grant's  Tomb  and  return.  He  had  sat  on  a  park  bench 
many  an  afternoon  at  this  very  spot  or  farther  up,  and  watched 
the  gay  company  of  horsemen  and  horsewomen  riding  cheer- 
fully by,  nodding  to  their  social  acquaintances,  speaking  to  the 
park  keepers  and  road  scavengers  in  a  condescending  and  su- 
perior way,  taking  their  leisure  in  a  comfortable  fashion  and 
looking  idly  at  the  river.  It  seemed  a  wonderful  world  to 
him  at  that  time.  Only  millionaires  could  afford  to  live  there, 
he  thought — so  ignorant  was  he  of  the  financial  tricks  of  the 
world.  These  handsomely  garbed  men  in  riding  coats  and 
breeches;  the  chic  looking  girls  in  stiff  black  hats,  trailing 

473 


474  THE    "GENIUS" 

black  riding  skirts,  yellow  gloved,  and  sporting  short  whips 
which  looked  more  like  dainty  canes  than  anything  else,  took 
his  fancy  greatly.  It  was  his  idea  at  that  time  that  this  was 
almost  the  apex  of  social  glory — to  be  permitted  to  ride  here 
of  an  afternoon. 

Since  then  he  had  come  a  long  way  and  learned  a  great  deal, 
but  he  still  fancied  this  street  as  one  of  the  few  perfect  ex- 
pressions of  the  elegance  and  luxury  of  metropolitan  life,  and 
he  wanted  to  live  on  it.  Angela  was  given  authority,  after 
discussion,  to  see  what  she  could  find  in  the  way  of  an  apart- 
ment of  say  nine  or  eleven  rooms  with  two  baths  or  more, 
which  should  not  cost  more  than  three  thousand  or  three  thou- 
sand five  hundred.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  a  very  handsome  apart- 
ment of  nine  rooms  and  two  baths  including  a  studio  room  eight- 
een feet  high,  forty  feet  long  and  twenty-two  feet  wide  was 
found  at  the  now,  to  them,  comparatively  moderate  sum  of  three 
thousand  two  hundred.  The  chambers  were  beautifully  finished 
in  old  English  oak  carved  and  stained  after  a  very  pleasing 
fifteenth  century  model,  and  the  walls  were  left  to  the  discre- 
tion of  the  incoming  tenant.  Whatever  was  desired  in  the  way 
of  tapestries,  silks  or  other  wall  furnishing  would  be  supplied. 

Eugene  chose  green-brown  tapestries  representing  old  Rhine 
Castles  for  his  studio,  and  blue  and  brown  silks  for  his  wall 
furnishings  elsewhere.  He  now  realized  a  long  cherished  dream 
of  having  the  great  wooden  cross  of  brown  stained  oak,  orna- 
mented with  a  figure  of  the  bleeding  Christ,  which  he  set  in  a 
dark  shaded  corner  behind  two  immense  wax  candles  set  in  tall 
heavy  bronze  candlesticks,  the  size  of  small  bed  posts.  These 
when  lighted  in  an  otherwise  darkened  room  and  flickering 
ruefully,  cast  a  peculiar  spell  of  beauty  over  the  gay  throngs 
which  sometimes  assembled  here.  A  grand  piano  in  old  Eng- 
lish oak  occupied  one  corner,  a  magnificent  music  cabinet  in 
French  burnt  woodwork,  stood  near  by.  There  were  a  number 
of  carved  and  fluted  high  back  chairs,  a  carved  easel  with  one 
of  his  best  pictures  displayed,  a  black  marble  pedestal  bearing  a 
yellow  stained  marble  bust  of  Nero,  with  his  lascivious,  de- 
generate face,  scowling  grimly  at  the  world,  and  two  gold  plated 
candelabra  of  eleven  branches  each  hung  upon  the  north  wall. 

Two  wide,  tall  windows  with  storm  sashes,  which  reached 
from  the  floor  to  the  ceiling,  commanded  the  West  view  of  the 
Hudson.  Outside  one  was  a  small  stone  balcony  wide  enough 
to  accommodate  four  chairs,  which  gave  a  beautiful,  cool  view  of 
the  drive.  It  was  shielded  by  an  awning  in  summer  and  was 
nine  storeys  above  the  ground.  Over  the  water  of  the  more  or 


THE  "GENIUS"  475 

less  peaceful  stream  were  the  stacks  and  outlines  of  a  great 
factory,  and  in  the  roadstead  lay  boats  always,  war  vessels, 
tramp  freighters,  sail  boats,  and  up  and  down  passed  the  end- 
less traffic  of  small  craft  always  so  pleasant  to  look  upon  in 
fair  or  foul  weather.  It  was  a  beautiful  apartment,  beautifully 
finished  in  which  most  of  their  furniture,  brought  from  Phila- 
delphia, fitted  admirably.  It  was  here  that  at  last  they  settled 
down  to  enjoy  the  fruit  of  that  long  struggle  and  comparative 
victory  which  brought  them  so  near  their  much  desired  goal — 
an  indestructible  and  unchangeable  competence  which  no  winds 
of  ill  fortune  could  readily  destroy. 

Eugene  was  quite  beside  himself  with  joy  and  satisfaction 
at  thus  finding  himself  and  Angela  eventually  surrounded  by 
those  tokens  of  luxury,  comfort  and  distinction  which  had  so 
long  haunted  his  brain.  Most  of  us  go  through  life  with  the 
furniture  of  our  prospective  castle  well  outlined  in  mind,  but 
with  never  the  privilege  of  seeing  it  realized.  We  have  our  pic- 
tures, our  hangings,  our  servitors  well  and  ably  selected.  Eu- 
gene's were  real  at  last. 


CHAPTER   XLII 

THE  affairs  of  the  United  Magazines  Corporation,  so  far 
as  the  advertising,  commercial  and  manufacturing  ends  at 
least  were  concerned,  were  not  in  such  an  unfortunate  condi- 
tion by  any  means  as  to  preclude  their  being  quickly  restored 
by  tact,  good  business  judgment  and  hard  work.  Since  the 
accession  to  power  of  Florence  White  in  the  commercial  and 
financial  ends,  things  in  that  quarter  at  least  had  slowly  begun 
to  take  a  turn  for  the  better.  Although  he  had  no  judgment 
whatsoever  as  to  what  constituted  a  timely  article,  an  important 
book  or  a  saleable  art  feature,  he  had  that  peculiar  intuition 
for  right  methods  of  manufacture,  right  buying  and  right 
selling  of  stock,  right  handling  of  labor  from  the  cost  and 
efficiency  point  of  view,  which  made  him  a  power  to  be  reckoned 
with.  He  knew  a  good  manufacturing  man  to  employ  at  sight. 
He  knew  where  books  could  be  sold  and  how.  He  knew  how 
to  buy  paper  in  large  quantities  and  at  the  cheapest  rates,  and 
how  to  print  and  manufacture  at  a  cost  which  was  as  low  as 
could  possibly  be  figured.  All  waste  was  eliminated.  He  used 
his  machines  to  their  utmost  capacity,  via  a  series  of  schedules 
which  saved  an  immense  amount  of  waste  and  demanded  the 
least  possible  help.  He  was  constantly  having  trouble  with 
the  labor  unions  on  this  score,  for  they  objected  to  a  policy 
which  cut  out  duplication  of  effort  and  so  eliminated  their  men. 
He  was  an  iron  master,  however,  coarse,  brutal,  foul  when  deal- 
ing with  them,  and  they  feared  and  respected  him. 

In  the  advertising  end  of  the  business  things  had  been  going 
rather  badly,  for  the  reason  that  the  magazines  for  which  this 
department  was  supposed  to  get  business  had  not  been  doing  so 
well  editorially.  They  were  out  of  touch  with  the  times  to  a 
certain  extent — not  in  advance  of  the  feelings  and  emotions  of 
the  period,  and  so  the  public  was  beginning  to  be  inclined  to 
look  elsewhere  for  its  mental  pabulum.  They  had  had  great 
circulation  and  great  prestige.  That  was  when  they  were 
younger,  and  the  original  publishers  and  'editors  in  their  prime. 
Since  then  days  of  weariness,  indifference  and  confusion  had 
ensued.  Only  with  the  accession  of  Colfax  to  power  had  hope 
begun  to  return.  As  has  been  said,  he  was  looking  for  strong 
men  in  every  quarter  of  this  field,  but  in  particular  he  was 
looking  for  one  man  who  would  tell  him  how  to  govern  them 

476 


THE    "GENIUS'  477 

after  he  had  them.  Who  was  to  dream  out  the  things  which 
would  interest  the  public  in  each  particular  magazine  proposi- 
tion? Who  was  to  draw  great  and  successful  authors  to  the 
book  end  of  the  house?  Who  was  to  inspire  the  men  who  were 
directing  the  various  departments  with  the  spirit  which  would 
bring  public  interest  and  success  ?  Eugene  might  be  the  man  even- 
tually he  hoped,  but  how  soon?  He  was  anxious  to  hurry  his 
progress  now  that  he  had  him. 

It  was  not  long  after  Eugene  was  seated  in  his  advertising 
managerial  chair  that  he  saw  how  things  lay.  His  men,  when 
he  gathered  them  in  conference,  complained  that  they  were  fight- 
ing against  falling  circulations. 

"You  can  talk  all  you  want,  Mr.  Witla,"  said  one  of  his 
men  gloomily,  "but  circulation  and  circulation  only  is  the  an- 
swer. They  have  to  keep  up  the  magazines  here.  All  these 
manufacturers  know  when  they  get  results.  We  go  out  and  get 
new  business  all  the  time,  but  we  don't  keep  it.  We  can't  keep 
it.  The  magazines  don't  bring  results.  What  are  you  going 
to  do  about  that?" 

"I'll  tell  you  what  we  are  going  to  do,"  replied  Eugene 
calmly,  "we're  going  to  key  up  the  magazines.  I  understand 
that  a  number  of  changes  are  coming  in  that  direction.  They 
are  doing  better  already.  The  manufacturing  department,  for 
one  thing,  is  in  splendid  shape.  I  know  that.  In  a  short  time 
the  editorial  departments  will  be.  I  want  you  people  to  put 
up,  at  this  time,  the  best  fight  you  know  how  under  the  condi- 
tions as  they  are.  I'm  not  going  to  make  any  changes  here  if  I 
can  help  it.  I'm  going  to  show  you  how  it  can  be  done — each 
one  separately.  I  want  you  to  believe  that  we  have  the  greatest 
organization  in  the  world,  and  it  can  be  made  to  sweep  every- 
thing before  it.  Take  a  look  at  Mr.  Colfax.  Do  you  think  he 
is  ever  going  to  fail?  We  may,  but  he  won't." 

The  men  liked  Eugene's  manner  and  confidence.  They  liked 
his  faith  in  them,  and  it  was  not  more  than  ten  days  before  he 
had  won  their  confidence  completely.  He  took  home  to  the 
hotel  where  he  and  Angela  were  stopping  temporarily  all  the 
magazines,  and  examined  them  carefully.  He  took  home  a 
number  of  the  latest  books  issued,  and  asked  Angela  to  read 
them.  He  tried  to  think  just  what  it  was  each  magazine  should 
represent,  and  who  and  where  was  the  man  who  would  give  to 
each  its  proper  life  and  vigor.  At  once,  for  the  adventure  maga- 
zine, he  thought  of  a  man  whom  he  had  met  years  before 
who  had  since  been  making  a  good  deal  of  a  success  editing  a 
Sunday  newspaper  magazine  supplement,  Jack  Bezenah.  He 


478  THE    "GENIUS' 

had  started  out  to  be  a  radical  writer,  but  had  tamed  down  and 
become  a  most  efficient  newspaper  man.  Eugene  had  met  him 
several  times  in  the  last  few  years  and  each  time  had  been  im- 
pressed by  the  force  and  subtlety  of  his  judgment  of  life.  Once 
he  had  said  to  him,  "Jack,  you  ought  to  be  editing  a  magazine 
of  your  own." 

"I  will  be,  I  will  be,"  returned  that  worthy.  Now  as  he 
looked  at  this  particular  proposition  Bezenah  stuck  in  his  mind  as 
the  man  who  should  be  employed.  He  had  seen  the  present 
editor,  but  he  seemed  to  have  no  force  at  all. 

The  weekly  needed  a  man  like  Townsend  Miller — where 
would  he  find  him?  The  present  man's  ideas  were  interesting 
but  not  sufficiently  general  in  their  appeal.  Eugene  went  about 
among  the  various  editors  looking  at  them,  ostensibly  making 
their  acquaintance,  but  he  was  not  satisfied  with  any  one  of 
them. 

He  waited  to  see  that  his  own  department  was  not  needing 
any  vast  effort  on  his  part  before  he  said  to  Coif  ax  one  day: 

"Things  are  not  right  with  your  editorial  department.  I've 
looked  into  my  particular  job  to  see  that  there  is  nothing  so 
radically  behindhand  there  but  what  it  can  be  remedied,  but 
your  magazines  are  not  right.  I  wish,  aside  from  salary  propo- 
sition entirely,  that  you  would  let  me  begin  to  make  a  few 
changes.  You  haven't  the  right  sort  of  people  upstairs.  I'll 
try  not  to  move  too  fast,  but  you  couldn't  be  worse  off  than 
you  are  now  in  some  instances." 

"I  know  it!"  said  Colfax.  "I  know  it!  What  do  you  sug- 
gest?" 

"Simply  better  men,  that's  all,"  replied  Eugene.  "Better  men 
with  newer  ideas.  It  may  cost  you  a  little  more  money  at  pres- 
ent, but  it  will  bring  you  more  back  in  the  long  run." 

"You're  right!  You're  right!"  insisted  Colfax  enthusiasti- 
cally. "I've  been  waiting  for  someone  whose  judgment  I 
thought  was  worth  two  whoops  to  come  and  tell  me  that  for  a 
long  time.  So  far  as  I'm  concerned  you  can  take  charge  right 
now!  The  salary  that  I  promised  you  goes  with  it.  I  want  to 
tell  you  something,  though!  I  want  to  tell  you  something! 
You're  going  in  there  now  with  full  authority,  but  don't  you 
fall  or  stub  your  toe  or  get  sick  or  make  any  mistakes.  If 
you  do,  God  help  you!  if  you  do,  I'll  eat  you  alive!  I'm  a 
good  employer,  Witla.  I'll  pay  any  price  for  good  men,  within 
reason,  but  if  I  think  I'm  being  done,  or  made  a  fool  of,  or  a 
man  is  making  a  mistake,  then  there's  no  mercy  in  me — not  a 
single  bit.  I'm  a  plain,  everyday  blank,  blank,  blank"  (and  he 


THE" 'GENIUS"  479 

used  a  term  so  foul  that  it  would  not  bear  repetition  in  print), 
"and  that's  all  there  is  to  me.  Now  we  understand  each 
other/' 

Eugene  looked  at  the  man  in  astonishment.  There  was  a 
hard,  cold  gleam  in  his  blue  eyes  which  he  had  seen  there  be- 
fore. His  presence  was  electric — his  look  demoniac. 

"I've  had  a  remark  somewhat  of  that  nature  made  to  me 
before,"  commented  Eugene.  He  was  thinking  of  Summer- 
field's  "the  coal  shute  for  yours."  He  had  hardly  expected  to 
hear  so  cold  and  definite  a  proposition  laid  down  so  soon  after 
his  entry  upon  his  new  duties,  but  here  it  was,  and  he  had  to 
face  it.  He  was  sorry  for  the  moment  that  he  had  ever  left 
Kalvin. 

"I'm  not  at  all  afraid  of  responsibility,"  replied  Eugene 
grimly.  "I'm  not  going  to  fall  down  or  stub  my  toe  or  make 
any  mistakes  if  I  can  help  it.  And  if  I  do  I  won't  complain 
to  you." 

"Well,  I'm  only  telling  you,"  said  Colfax,  smiling  and  good- 
natured  again.  The  cold  light  was  gone.  "And  I  mean  it  in 
the  best  way  in  the  world.  I'll  back  you  up  with  all  power 
and  authority,  but  if  you  fail,  God  help  you;  I  can't." 

He  went  back  to  his  desk  and  Eugene  went  upstairs.  He 
felt  as  though  the  red  cap  of  a  cardinal  had  been  put  upon 
his  head,  and  at  the  same  time  an  axe  suspended  over  him.  He 
would  have  to  think  carefully  of  what  he  was  doing  from  now 
on.  He  would  have  to  go  slow,  but  he  would  have  to  go. 
All  power  had  been  given  him — all  authority.  He  could  go 
upstairs  now  and  discharge  everybody  in  the  place.  Colfax 
would  back  him  up,  but  he  would  have  to  replace  them.  And 
that  quickly  and  effectively.  It  was  a  trying  hour,  notable  but 
grim. 

His  first  move  was  to  send  for  Bezenah.  He  had  not  seen 
him  for  some  time,  but  his  stationery  which  he  now  had  headed 
"The  United  Magazines  Corporation,"  and  in  one  corner  "Of- 
fice of  the  Managing  Publisher,"  brought  him  fast  enough.  It 
was  a  daring  thing  to  do  in  a  way  thus  to  style  himself  managing 
publisher,  when  so  many  able  men  were  concerned  in  the  work, 
but  this  fact  did  not  disturb  him.  He  was  bound  and  deter- 
mined to  begin,  and  this  stationery — the  mere  engraving  of  it 
— was  as  good  a  way  as  any  of  serving  notice  that  he  was  in 
the  saddle.  The  news  flew  like  wild  fire  about  the  building, 
for  there  were  many  in  his  office,  even  his  private  stenographer, 
to  carry  the  news.  All  the  editors  and  assistants  wondered 
what  it  could  mean,  but  they  asked  no  questions,  except  among 


480  THE    "GENIUS" 

themselves.  No  general  announcement  had  been  made.  On 
the  same  stationery  he  sent  for  Adolph  Morgenbau,  who  had 
exhibited  marked  skill  at  Summerfield's  as  his  assistant,  and  who 
had  since  become  art  editor  of  The  Sphere,  a  magazine  of  ris- 
ing importance.  He  thought  that  Morgenbau  might  now  be 
fitted  to  handle  the  art  work  under  him,  and  he  was  not  mis- 
taken. Morgenbau  had  developed  into  a  man  of  considerable 
force  and  intelligence,  and  was  only  too  glad  to  be  connected 
with  Eugene  again.  He  also  talked  with  various  advertising 
men,  artists  and  writers  as  to  just  who  were  the  most  live  edi- 
torial men  in  the  field  at  that  time,  and  these  he  wrote  to, 
asking  if  they  would  come  to  see  him.  Cne  by  one  they  came, 
for  the  fact  that  he  had  come  to  New  York  to  take  charge 
not  only  of  the  advertising  but  the  editorial  ends  of  the  United 
Magazines  Corporation  spread  rapidly  over  the  city.  All  those 
interested  in  art,  writing,  editing  and  advertising  heard  of  it. 
Those  who  had  known  something  of  him  in  the  past  could 
scarcely  believe  their  ears.  Where  did  he  get  the  skill  ? 

Eugene  stated  to  Colfax  that  he  deemed  it  advisable  that  a 
general  announcement  be  made  to  the  staff  that  he  was  in 
charge.  "I  have  been  looking  about,"  he  said,  "and  I  think  I 
know  what  I  want  to  do." 

The  various  editors,  art  directors,  advertising  men  and  book 
workers  were  called  to  the  main  office  and  Colfax  announced 
that  he  wished  to  make  a  statement  which  affected  all  those 
present.  "Mr.  Witla  here  will  be  in  charge  of  all  the  publish- 
ing ends  of  this  business  from  now  on.  I  am  withdrawing  from 
any  say  in  the  matter,  for  I  am  satisfied  that  I  do  not  know  as 
much  about  it  as  he  does.  I  want  you  all  to  look  to  him  for 
advice  and  counsel  just  as  you  have  to  me  in  the  past.  Mr. 
White  will  continue  in  charge  of  the  manufacturing  and  dis- 
tributing end  of  the  business.  Mr.  White  and  Mr.  Witla  will 
work  together.  That's  all  I  have  to  say." 

The  company  departed,  and  once  more  Eugene  returned  to 
his  office.  He  decided  at  once  to  find  an  advertising  man  who 
could  work  under  him  and  run  that  branch  of  the  business  as 
well  as  he  would.  He  spent  some  time  looking  for  this  man, 
and  finally  found  him  working  for  the  Hays-Rickert  Company, 
a  man  whom  he  had  known  something  of  in  the  past  as  an  ex- 
ceptional worker.  He  was  a  strong,  forceful  individual  of 
thirty-two,  Carter  Hayes  by  name,  who  was  very  anxious  to 
succeed  in  his  chosen  work,  and  who  saw  a  great  opportunity 
here.  He  did  not  like  Eugene  so  very  well — he  thought  that 
he  was  over-estimated — but  he  decided  to  work  for  him.  The 


THE    "GENIUS1  481 

latter  put  him  in  at  ten  thousand  a  year  and  then  turned  his 
attention  to  his  new  duties  completely. 

The  editorial  and  publishing  world  was  entirely  new  to 
Eugene  from  the  executive  side.  He  did  not  understand  it  as 
well  as  he  did  the  art  and  advertising  worlds,  and  because  it 
was  in  a  way  comparatively  new  and  strange  to  him  he  made 
a  number  of  initial  mistakes.  His  first  was  in  concluding  that 
all  the  men  about  him  were  more  or  less  weak  and  inefficient, 
principally  because  the  magazines  were  weak,  when,  as  a  mat- 
ter of  fact,  there  were  a  number  of  excellent  men  whom  con- 
ditions had  repressed,  and  who  were  only  waiting  for  some 
slight  recognition  to  be  of  great  value.  In  the  next  place,  he 
was  not  clear  as  to  the  exact  policies  to  be  followed  in  the  case 
of  each  publication,  and  he  was  not  inclined  to  listen  humbly 
to  those  who  could  tell  him.  His  best  plan  would  have  been 
to  have  gone  exceedingly  slow,  watching  the  men  who  were  in 
charge,  getting  their  theories  and  supplementing  their  efforts 
with  genial  suggestions.  Instead  he  decided  on  sweeping  changes 
and  not  long  after  he  had  been  in  charge  he  began  to  make 
them.  March  wood,  the  editor  of  the  Review,  was  removed,  as 
was  Gailer  of  the  Weekly.  The  editorship  of  the  Adventure 
Story  Magazine  was  given  to  Bezenah. 

In  any  organization  of  this  kind,  however,  great  improve- 
ments cannot  be  effected  in  a  moment,  and  weeks  and  months 
must  elapse  before  any  noticeable  change  can  be  shown.  Instead 
of  throwing  the  burden  of  responsibility  on  each  of  his  assist- 
ants and  leaving  it  there,  making  occasional  criticisms,  Eugene 
undertook  to  work  with  each  and  all  of  them,  endeavoring  to 
direct  the  policy  intimately  in  each  particular  case.  It  was  not 
easy,  and  to  him  at  times  it  was  confusing.  He  had  a  great 
deal  to  learn.  Still  he  did  have  helpful  ideas  in  a  score  of  direc- 
tions daily  and  these  told.  The  magazines  were  improved. 
The  first  issues  which  were  affected  by  his  judgment  and  those 
of  his  men  were  inspected  closely  by  Colfax  and  White.  The 
latter  was  particularly  anxious  to  see  what  improvement  had  been 
made,  and  while  he  could  not  judge  well  himself,  he  had  the 
means  of  getting  opinions.  Nearly  all  these  were  favorable,  much 
to  his  disappointment,  for  he  hoped  to  find  things  to  criticize. 

Colfax,  who  had  been  watching  Eugene's  determined  air, 
the  energy  with  which  he  went  about  his  work  and  the  manner 
in  which  he  freely  accepted  responsibility,  came  to  admire  him 
even  more  than  he  had  before.  He  liked  him  socially — his 
companionship  after  business  hours — and  began  to  invite  him  up 
to  the  house  to  dinner.  Unlike  Kalvin,  on  most  of  these  occa- 


482  THE    "GENIUS" 

sfons  he  did  not  take  Angela  into  consideration,  for  having 
met  her  he  was  not  so  very  much  impressed  with  her.  She 
was  nice,  but  not  of  the  same  coruscating  quality  as  her  hus- 
band. Mrs.  Colfax  expressed  a  derogatory  opinion,  and  this 
also  made  it  difficult.  He  sincerely  wished  that  Eugene  were 
single. 

Time  passed.  As  Eugene  worked  more  and  more  with  the 
various  propositions  which  this  situation  involved,  he  became 
more  and  more  at  his  ease.  Those  who  have  ever  held  an 
executive  position  of  any  importance  know  how  easy  it  is,  given 
a  certain  degree  of  talent,  to  attract  men  and  women  of  ability 
and  force  according  to  that  talent.  Like  seeks  like  and  those  who 
are  looking  for  advancement  in  their  world  according  to  their 
talents  naturally  drift  to  those  who  are  more  highly  placed  and 
who  are  much  like  themselves.  Advertising  men,  artists,  cir- 
culation men,  editors,  book  critics,  authors  and  all  those  who 
were  sufficiently  in  his  vein  to  understand  or  appreciate  him 
sought  him  out,  and  by  degrees  he  was  compelled  to  learn  to 
refer  all  applicants  to  the  heads  of  departments.  He  was  com- 
pelled to  learn  to  rely  to  a  certain  degree  on  his  men,  and  having 
learned  this  he  was  inclined  to  go  to  the  other  extreme  and 
rely  too  much.  In  the  case  of  Carter  Hayes,  in  the  advertising 
department,  he  was  particularly  impressed  with  the  man's  effi- 
ciency, and  rested  on  him  heavily  for  all  the  details  of  that  work, 
merely  inspecting  his  programs  of  procedure  and  advising  him  in 
difficult  situations.  The  latter  appreciated  this,  for  he  was 
egotistic  to  the  roots,  but  it  did  not  develop  a  sense  of  loyalty 
in  him.  He  saw  in  Eugene  a  man  who  had  risen  by  some  fluke 
of  fortune,  and  who  was  really  not  an  advertising  man  at  heart. 
He  hoped  some  day  that  circumstances  would  bring  it  about 
that  he  could  be  advertising  manager  in  fact,  dealing  directly 
with  Colfax  and  White,  whom,  because  of  their  greater  financial 
interest  in  the  business,  he  considered  Eugene's  superiors,  and 
whom  he  proposed  to  court.  There  were  others  in  the  other 
departments  who  felt  the  same  way. 

The  one  great  difficulty  with  Eugene  was  that  he  had  no 
great  power  of  commanding  the  loyalty  of  his  assistants.  He 
had  the  power  of  inspiring  them — of  giving  them  ideas  which 
would  be  helpful  to  themselves — but  these  they  used,  as  a  rule, 
merely  to  further  their  own  interests,  to  cause  them  to  advance 
to  a  point  where  they  deemed  themselves  beyond  him.  Because 
in  his  manner  he  was  not  hard,  distant,  bitter,  he  was  considered, 
as  a  rule,  rather  easy.  The  men  whom  he  employed,  and  he 
had  talent  for  picking  men  of  very  exceptional  ability,  some- 


THE   "GENIUS'  483 

times  much  greater  than  his  own  in  their  particular  specialties, 
looked  upon  him  not  so  much  as  a  superior  after  a  time,  as 
someone  who  was  in  their  path  and  to  whose  shoes  they  might 
properly  aspire.  He  seemed  so  good  natured  about  the  whole 
work — so  easy  going.  Now  and  then  he  took  the  trouble  to 
tell  a  man  that  he  was  getting  too  officious,  but  in  the  main 
he  did  not  care  much.  Things  were  going  smoothly,  the  maga- 
zines were  improving,  the  advertising  and  circulation  depart- 
ments were  showing  marked  gains,  and  altogether  his  life  seemed 
to  have  blossomed  out  into  comparative  perfection.  There  were 
storms  and  daily  difficulties,  but  they  were  not  serious.  Colfax 
advised  with  him  genially  when  he  was  in  doubt,  and  White 
pretended  a  friendship  which  he  did  not  feel. 


CHAPTER   XLIII 

THE  trouble  with  this  situation  was  that  it  involved  more 
power,  comfort,  ease  and  luxury  than  Eugene  had  ever 
experienced  before,  and  made  him  a  sort  of  oriental  potentate 
not  only  among  his  large  company  of  assistants  but  in  his  own 
home.  Angela,  who  had  been  watching  his  career  all  these 
years  with  curiosity,  began  to  conceive  of  him  at  last  as  a  genius 
in  every  respect — destined  to  some  great  pre-eminence,  in  art 
or  finance  or  the  publishing  world  or  all  three.  She  did  not 
relax  her  attitude  in  regard  to  his  conduct,  being  more  con- 
vinced than  ever  that  to  achieve  the  dizzy  eminence  to  which  he 
was  now  so  rapidly  ascending,  he  must  be  more  circumspect 
than  ever.  People  were  watching  him  so  closely  now.  They 
were  so  obsequious  to  him,  but  still  so  dangerous.  A  man  in 
his  position  must  be  so  careful  how  he  dressed,  talked,  walked. 

"Don't  make  so  much  fuss,"  he  used  to  say  to  her.  "For 
heaven's  sake,  let  me  alone!"  This  merely  produced  more  quar- 
rels, for  Angela  was  determined  to  regulate  him  in  spite  of  his 
wishes  and  in  his  best  interests. 

Grave  men  and  women  in  various  walks  of  life — art,  litera- 
ture, philanthropy,  trade,  began  to  seek  him  out,  because  in 
the  first  place  he  had  an  understanding  mind  and  because  in 
the  next  place,  which  was  much  more  important,  he  had  some- 
thing to  give.  There  are  always  those  in  all  walks  of  life  who 
are  seeking  something  through  those  avenues  which  a  success- 
ful person  represents,  whatever  they  may  be,  and  these  together 
with  those  others  who  are  always  intensely  eager  to  bask  in 
the  reflected  glory  of  a  rising  luminary,  make  a  retinue  for  every 
successful  man.  Eugene  had  his  retinue,  men  and  women  of 
his  own  station  or  beneath  it,  who  would  eagerly  shake  his 
hand  with  an  "Oh,  yes,  indeed.  Managing  Publisher  of  the 
United  Magazines  Corporation!  Oh,  yes,  yes!"  Women  par- 
ticularly were  prone  to  smile,  showing  him  even  white  teeth  and 
regretting  that  all  good  looking  and  successful  men  were  mar- 
ried. 

In  July  following  his  coming  from  Philadelphia  the  United 
Magazines  Corporation  moved  into  its  new  building,  and  then 
he  was  installed  into  the  most  imposing  office  of  his  career. 
A  subtle  assistant,  wishing  to  ingratiate  the  staff  in  Eugene's 
good  graces,  suggested  that  a  collection  be  taken  up  for  flowers. 

484 


THE    "GENIUS"  485 

His  room,  which  was  done  in  white,  blue  and  gold  with  rose 
wood  furniture,  to  set  it  apart  from  the  prevailing  decorative 
scheme  and  so  make  it  more  impressive,  was  scattered  with 
great  bouquets  of  roses,  sweet  peas  and  pinks,  in  beautiful  and 
ornate  vases  of  different  colors,  countries  and  schools.  His 
great  rosewood  flat-topped  desk,  covered  with  a  thick,  plate 
glass  through  which  the  polished  wood  shone  brightly,  was  deco- 
rated with  flowers.  On  the  morning  of  his  entry  he  held  an  im- 
promptu reception,  on  which  occasion  he  was  visited  by  Colfax 
and  White,  who  after  going  to  look  at  their  new  rooms,  came  to 
his.  A  general  reception  which  followed  some  three  weeks  later, 
and  in  which  the  successful  representatives  of  various  walks  of 
life  in  the  metropolis  took  part,  drew  to  the  building  a  great 
crowd,  artists,  writers,  editors,  publishers,  authors  and  advertis- 
ing men  who  saw  him  in  all  his  glory.  On  this  occasion,  Eugene, 
with  White  and  Colfax  did  the  receiving.  He  was  admired  at  a 
distance  by  striplings  who  wondered  how  he  had  ever  accom- 
plished such  great  results.  His  rise  had  been  so  meteoric.  It 
seemed  so  impossible  that  a  man  who  had  started  as  an  artist 
should  change  and  become  a  dominant  factor  in  literature  and 
art  from  a  publishing  point  of  view. 

In  his  own  home  his  surroundings  were  equally  showy;  he 
was  as  much  a  figure  as  he  was  in  his  office.  When  he  was 
alone  with  Angela,  which  was  not  so  often,  for  naturally  they 
did  a  great  deal  of  entertaining,  he  was  a  figure  even  to  her. 
Long  ago  she  had  come  to  think  of  him  as  someone  who  would 
some  day  dominate  in  the  art  world ;  but  to  see  him  an  imposing 
factor  in  the  city's  commercial  life,  its  principal  publishers'  rep- 
resentative, having  a  valet  and  an  automobile,  riding  freely  in 
cabs,  lunching  at  the  most  exclusive  restaurants  and  clubs,  and 
associating  constantly  with  someone  who  was  of  importance,  was 
a  different  matter. 

She  was  no  longer  so  sure  of  herself  with  him,  not  so  certain 
of  her  power  to  control  him.  They  quarreled  over  little  things, 
but  she  was  not  so  ready  to  begin  these  quarrels.  He  seemed 
changed  now  and  deeper  still.  She  was  afraid,  even  yet,  that 
he  might  make  a  mistake  and  lose  it  all,  that  the  forces  of  ill 
will,  envy  and  jealousy  which  were  everywhere  apparent  in  life, 
and  which  blow  about  so  easily  like  gusts  of  wind,  would  work 
him  harm.  Eugene  was  apparently  at  ease,  though  he  was 
troubled  at  times  for  his  own  safety,  when  he  thought  of  it, 
for  he  had  no  stock  in  the  company,  and  was  as  beholden  to 
Colfax  as  any  hall  boy,  but  he  did  not  see  how  he  could  easily 
be  dispensed  with.  He  was  making  good. 


486  THE    "GENIUS" 

Colfax  was  friendly  to  him.  He  was  surprised  at  times  to 
see  how  badly  the  manufacturing  arrangements  could  go  awry, 
affecting  his  dates  of  issue,  but  White  invariably  had  a  good  ex- 
cuse. Colfax  took  him  to  his  house  in  the  country,  his  lodge  in 
the  mountains,  on  short  yachting  and  fishing  trips,  for  he  liked 
to  talk  to  him,  but  he  rarely  if  ever  invited  Angela.  He  did 
not  seem  to  think  it  was  necessary  to  do  this,  and  Eugene  was 
afraid  to  impress  the  slight  upon  his  attention,  much  as  he 
dreaded  the  thoughts  which  Angela  must  be  thinking.  It  was 
Eugene  here  and  Eugene  there,  with  constant  calls  of  "where 
are  you,  old  man?"  from  Colfax,  who  appeared  not  to  want 
to  be  away  from  him. 

"Well,  old  man,"  he  would  say,  looking  him  over  much  as 
one  might  a  blood  horse  or  a  pedigree  dog,  "you're  getting  on. 
This  new  job  agrees  with  you.  You  didn't  look  like  that  when 
you  came  to  me,"  and  he  would  feel  the  latest  suit  Eugene  might 
be  wearing,  or  comment  on  some  pin  or  tie  he  had  on,  or  tell 
him  that  his  shoes  were  not  as  good  as  he  could  really  get,  if 
he  wanted  to  be  perfect  in  dress.  Colfax  was  for  grooming  his 
new  prize  much  as  one  might  groom  a  blood  horse,  and  he  was 
always  telling  Eugene  little  details  of  social  life,  the  right  things 
to  do,  the  right  places  to  be  seen,  the  right  places  to  go,  as 
though  Eugene  knew  little  or  nothing. 

"Now  when  we  go  down  to  Mrs.  Savage's  Friday  afternoon, 
you  get  a  Truxton  Portmanteau.  Have  you  seen  them  ?  Well, 
there's  the  thing.  Got  a  London  coat?  Well,  you  ought  to 
have  one.  Those  servants  down  there  go  through  your  things 
and  they  size  you  up  accordingly.  Nothing  less  than  two  dollars 
each  goes,  and  five  dollars  to  the  butler,  remember  that." 

He  assumed  and  insisted  after  a  fashion  which  Eugene  re- 
sented quite  as  much  as  he  did  his  persistent  ignoring  of  Angela, 
but  he  did  not  dare  comment  on  it.  He  could  see  that  Colfax 
was  variable,  that  he  could  hate  as  well  as  love,  and  that  hb 
rarely  took  any  intermediate  ground.  Eugene  was  his  favorite 
now. 

"I'll  send  my  car  around  for  you  at  two  Friday,"  he  would 
say,  as  though  Eugene  did  not  keep  a  car,  when  he  was  plan- 
ning one  of  his  week-end  excursions.  "You  be  ready." 

At  two,  on  that  day,  Colfax's  big  blue  touring  car  would  come 
speeding  up  to  the  entrance  of  the  apartment  house  and  Eugene's 
valet  would  carry  down  his  bags,  golf  sticks,  tennis  racket  and 
the  various  paraphernalia  that  go  with  a  week-end's  entertain- 
ment, and  off  the  car  would  roll.  At  times  Angela  would  be 
left  behind,  at  times  taken,  when  Eugene  could  arrange  it; 


THE   "GENIUS'  487 

I 

but  he  found  that  he  had  to  be  tactful  and  accede  to  Colfax's 
indifference  mostly.  Eugene  would  always  explain  to  her  how 
it  was.  He  was  sorry  for  her  in  a  way,  and  yet  he  felt  there 
was  some  justice  in  the  distinction.  She  was  not  exactly  suited 
to  that  topmost  world  in  which  he  was  now  beginning  to  move. 
These  people  were  colder,  sharper,  shrewder,  than  Angela.  They 
had  more  of  that  intense  sophistication  of  manner  and  experience 
than  she  could  achieve.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  Angela  had  as 
much  grace  and  more  than  many  of  the  four  hundred,  but  she 
did  lack  that  quickness  of  wit  or  that  shallow  self-sufficiency  and 
assurance  which  are  the  almost  invariable  traits  of  those  who 
shine  as  members  of  the  smart  set.  Eugene  was  able  to  assume 
this  manner  whether  he  felt  it  or  not. 

"Oh,  that's  all  right,"  she  would  say,  "as  long  as  you're  doing 
it  for  business  reasons." 

She  resented  it  nevertheless,  bitterly,  for  it  seemed  such  an 
uncalled  for  slur.  Coif  ax  had  no  compunctions  in  adjusting  his 
companionship  to  suit  his  moods.  He  thought  Eugene  was 
well  suited  to  this  high  life.  He  thought  Angela  was  not. 
He  made  the  distinction  roughly  and  went  his  way. 

It  was  in  this  manner  that  Eugene  learned  a  curious  fact 
about  the  social  world,  and  that  was  that  frequently  in  these 
highest  circles  a  man  would  be  received  where  his  wife  would 
not  and  vice  versa,  and  that  nothing  very  much  was  thought  of 
it,  if  it  could  be  managed. 

"Oh,  is  that  Birkwood,"  he  heard  a  young  swell  once  re- 
mark, concerning  an  individual  in  Philadelphia.  "Why  do  they 
let  him  in?  His  wife  is  charming,  but  he  won't  do,"  and  once 
in  New  York  he  heard  a  daughter  ask  her  mother,  of  a  certain 
wife  who  was  announced — her  husband  being  at  the  same  table 
— "who  invited  her?" 

"I'm  sure  I  don't  know,"  replied  her  mother;  "I  didn't.  She 
must  have  come  of  her  own  accord." 

"She  certainly  has  her  nerve  with  her,"  replied  the  daughter 
— and  when  the  wTife  entered  Eugene  could  see  why.  She  was 
not  good  looking  and  not  harmoniously  and  tastefully  dressed. 
It  gave  Eugene  a  shock,  but  in  a  way  he  could  understand. 
There  were  no  such  grounds  of  complaint  against  Angela.  She 
was  attractive  and  shapely.  Her  one  weakness  was  that  she 
lacked  the  blase  social  air.  It  was  too  bad,  he  thought. 

In  his  own  home  and  circle,  however,  he  thought  to  make  up 
for  this  by  a  series  of  entertainments  which  grew  more  and 
more  elaborate  as  time  went  on.  At  first  when  he  came  back 
from  Philadelphia  it  consisted  of  a  few  people  in  to  dinner, 


488  THE    "GENIUS" 

old  friends,  for  he  was  not  quite  sure  of  himself  and  did  not 
know  how  many  would  come  to  share  his  new  honors  with 
him.  Eugene  had  never  got  over  his  love  for  those  he  had 
known  in  his  youth.  He  was  not  snobbish.  It  was  true  that 
now  he  was  taking  naturally  to  prosperous  people,  but  the 
little  ones,  the  old-time  ones,  he  liked  for  old  lang  sync's  sake 
as  well  as  for  themselves.  Many  came  to  borrow  money,  for 
he  had  associated  with  many  ne'er  do  wells  in  his  time,  but  many 
more  were  attracted  by  his  fame. 

Eugene  knew  intimately  and  pleasantly  most  of  the  artistic  and 
intellectual  figures  of  his  day.  In  his  home  and  at  his  table 
there  appeared  artists,  publishers,  grand  opera  stars,  actors  and 
playwrights.  His  large  salary,  for  one  thing,  his  beautiful  apart- 
ment and  its  location,  his  magnificent  office  and  his  friendly 
manner  all  conspired  to  assist  him.  It  was  his  self-conscious 
boast  that  he  had  not  changed.  He  liked  nice  people,  simple 
people,  natural  people  he  said,  for  these  were  the  really  great 
ones,  but  he  could  not  see  how  far  he  had  come  in  class  selec- 
tion. Now  he  naturally  gravitated  to  the  wealthy,  the  reputed, 
the  beautiful,  the  strong  and  able,  for  no  others  interested  him. 
He  hardly  saw  them.  If  he  did  it  was  to  pity  or  give  alms. 

It  is  difficult  to  indicate  to  those  who  have  never  come  out 
of  poverty  into  luxury,  or  out  of  comparative  uncouthness  into 
refinement,  the  veil  or  spell  which  the  latter  comes  eventually 
to  cast  over  the  inexperienced  mind,  coloring  the  world  anew. 
Life  is  apparently  striving,  constantly,  to  perfect  its  illusions  and 
to  create  spells.  There  are,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  nothing  but 
these  outside  that  ultimate  substance  or  principle  which  under- 
lies it  all.  To  those  who  have  come  out  of  inharmony,  harmony 
is  a  spell,  and  to  those  who  have  come  out  of  poverty,  luxury  is  a 
dream  of  delight.  Eugene,  being  primarily  a  lover  of  beauty, 
keenly  responsive  to  all  those  subtleties  of  perfection  and  ar- 
rangement which  ingenuity  can  devise,  was  taken  vastly  by  the 
nature  of  this  greater  world  into  which,  step  by  step  apparently, 
he  was  almost  insensibly  passing.  Each  new  fact  which  met 
his  eye  or  soothed  his  sensibilities  was  quickly  adjusted  to  all 
that  had  gone  before.  It  seemed  to  him  as  though  all  his  life 
he  had  naturally  belonged  to  this  perfect  world  of  which  country 
houses,  city  mansions,  city  and  country  clubs,  expensive  hotels 
and  inns,  cars,  resorts,  beautiful  women,  affected  manners,  sub- 
tlety of  appreciation  and  perfection  of  appointment  generally 
were  the  inherent  concomitants.  This  was  the  true  heaven — 
that  material  and  spiritual  perfection  on  earth,  of  which  the 
world  was  dreaming  and  to  which,  out  of  toil,  disorder,  shabby 


THE    "GENIUS'  489 

ideas,  mixed  opinions,  non-understanding  and  all  the  ill  to 
which  the  flesh  is  heir,  it  was  constantly  aspiring. 

Here  was  no  sickness,  no  weariness  apparently,  no  ill  health 
or  untoward  circumstances.  All  the  troubles,  disorders  and  im- 
perfections of  existence  were  here  carefully  swept  aside  and  one 
saw  only  the  niceness,  the  health  and  strength  of  being.  He 
was  more  and  more  impressed  as  he  came  farther  and  farther 
along  in  the  scale  of  comfort,  with  the  force  and  eagerness 
with  which  life  seems  to  minister  to  the  luxury-love  of  the 
human  mind.  He  learned  of  so  many,  to  him,  lovely  things, 
large,  wellkept,  magnificent  country  places,  scenes  of  exquisite 
beauty  where  country  clubs,  hotels,  seaside  resorts  of  all  de- 
scriptions had  been  placed.  He  found  sport,  amusement,  exer- 
cise, to  be  tremendously  well  organized  and  that  there  were 
thousands  of  people  who  were  practically  devoting  their  lives 
to  this.  Such  a  state  of  social  ease  was  not  for  him  yet,  but  he 
could  sit  at  the  pleasures,  so  amply  spread,  between  his  hours 
of  work  and  dream  of  the  time  to  come  when  possibly  he  might 
do  nothing  at  all.  Yachting,  motoring,  golfing,  fishing,  hunting, 
riding,  playing  tennis  and  polo,  there  were  experts  in  all  these 
fields  he  found.  Card  playing,  dancing,  dining,  lounging,  these 
seemed  to  occupy  many  people's  days  constantly.  He  could  only 
look  in  upon  it  all  as  upon  a  passing  show,  but  that  was  better 
than  nothing.  It  was  more  than  he  had  ever  done  before.  He 
was  beginning  to  see  clearly  how  the  world  was  organized,  how 
far  were  its  reaches  of  wealth,  its  depths  of  poverty.  From 
the  lowest  beggar  to  the  topmost  scene — what  a  distance! 

Angela  scarcely  kept  pace  with  him  in  all  these  mental  pere- 
grinations. It  was  true  that  now  she  went  to  the  best  dress- 
makers only,  bought  charming  hats,  the  most  expensive  shoes, 
rode  in  cabs  and  her  husband's  auto,  but  she  did  not  feel  about 
it  as  he  did.  It  seemed  very  much  like  a  dream  to  her — 
like  something  that  had  come  so  suddenly  and  so  exuberantly 
that  it  could  not  be  permanent.  There  was  running  in  fier  mind 
all  the  time  that  Eugene  was  neither  a  publisher,  nor  an  editor, 
nor  a  financier  at  heart,  but  an  artist  and  that  an  artist  he  would 
remain.  He  might  attain  great  fame  and  make  much  money  out 
of  his  adopted  profession,  but  some  day  in  all  likelihood  he 
would  leave  it  and  return  to  art.  He  seemed  to  be  making 
sound  investments — at  least,  they  seemed  sound  to  her,  and  their 
stocks  and  bank  accounts,  principally  convertible  stocks,  seemed 
a  safe  enough  margin  for  the  future  to  guarantee  peace  of  mind, 
but  they  were  not  saving  so  much,  after  all.  It  was  costing  them 
something  over  eight  thousand  dollars  a  year  to  live,  and  their 


490  THE    "GENIUS" 

expenses  were  constantly  growing  larger  rather  than  smaller. 
Eugene  appeared  to  become  more  and  more  extravagant. 

"I  think  we  are  doing  too  much  entertaining,"  Angela  had 
once  protested,  but  he  waived  the  complaint  aside.  "I  can't  do 
what  I'm  doing  and  not  entertain.  It's  building  me  up.  People 
in  our  position  have  to."  He  threw  open  the  doors  finally  to 
really  remarkable  crowds  and  most  of  the  cleverest  people  in  all 
walks  of  life — the  really  exceptionally  clever — came  to  eat  his 
meals,  to  drink  his  wines,  to  envy  his  comfort  and  wish  they  were 
in  his  shoes. 

During  all  this  time  Eugene  and  Angela  instead  of  growing 
closer  together,  were  really  growing  farther  and  farther  apart. 
She  had  never  either  forgotten  or  utterly  forgiven  that  one 
terrific  lapse,  and  she  had  never  believed  that  Eugene  was  utterly 
cured  of  his  hedonistic  tendencies.  Crowds  of  beautiful  women 
came  to  Angela's  teas,  lunches  and  their  joint  evening  parties  and 
receptions.  Under  Eugene's  direction  they  got  together  interest- 
ing programmes,  for  it  was  no  trouble  now  for  him  to  command 
musical,  theatrical,  literary  and  artistic  talent.  He  knew  men 
and  women  who  could  make  rapid  charcoal  or  crayon  sketches  of 
people,  could  do  feats  in  legerdemain,  and  character  representa- 
tion, could  sing,  dance,  play,  recite  and  tell  humorous  stories 
in  a  droll  and  off-hand  way.  He  insisted  that  only  exceptionally 
beautiful  women  be  invited,  for  he  did  not  care  to  look  at  the 
homely  ones,  and  curiously  he  found  dozens,  who  were  not  only 
extremely  beautiful,  but  singers,  dancers,  composers,  authors, 
actors  and  playwrights  in  the  bargain.  Nearly  all  of  them  were 
brilliant  conversationalists  and  they  helped  to  entertain  them- 
selves— made  their  own  entertainment,  in  fact.  His  table  very 
frequently  was  a  glittering  spectacle.  One  of  his  "Stunts"  as  he 
called  it  was  to  bundle  fifteen  or  twenty  people  into  three  or 
four  automobiles  after  they  had  lingered  in  his  rooms  until 
three  o'clock  in  the  morning  and  motor  out  to  some  out-of-town 
inn  for  breakfast  and  "to  see  the  sun  rise."  A  small  matter 
like  a  bill  for  $75.00  for  auto  hire  or  thirty-five  dollars  for  a 
crowd  for  breakfast  did  not  trouble  him.  It  was  a  glorious  sen- 
sation to  draw  forth  his  purse  and  remove  four  or  five  or  six  yel- 
low backed  ten  dollar  bills,  knowing  that  it  made  little  real 
difference.  More  money  was  coming  to  him  from  the  same 
source.  He  could  send  down  to  the  cashier  at  any  time  and  draw 
from  five  hundred  to  a  thousand  dollars.  He  always  had  from 
one  hundred  and  fifty  to  three  hundred  dollars  in  his  purse  in 
denominations  of  five,  ten  and  twenty  dollar  bills.  He  carried 
a  small  check  book  and  most  frequently  paid  by  check.  He 


THE    "GENIUS'  491 

liked  to  assume  that  he  was  known  and  frequently  imposed  this 
assumption  on  others. 

"Eugene  Witla !  Eugene  Witla !  George !  he's  a  nice  fellow," 
— or  "it's  remarkable  how  he  has  come  up,  isn't  it?"  "I  was 
at  the  Witlas'  the  other  night.  Did  you  ever  see  such  a  beau- 
tiful apartment?  It's  perfect!  That  view!" 

People  commented  on  the  interesting  people  he  entertained, 
the  clever  people  you  met  there,  the  beautiful  women,  the  beau- 
tiful view.  "And  Mrs.  Witla  is  so  charming." 

But  down  at  the  bottom  of  all  this  talk  there  was  also  much 
envy  and  disparagement  and  never  much  enthusiasm  for  the 
personality  of  Mrs.  Witla.  She  was  not  as  brilliant  as  Eugene 
— or  rather  the  comment  wras  divided.  Those  who  liked  clever 
people,  show,  writ,  brilliance,  ease,  liked  Eugene  and  not  Angela 
quite  so  much.  Those  who  liked  sedateness,  solidity,  sincerity, 
the  commoner  virtues  of  faithfulness  and  effort,  admired  Angela. 
All  saw  that  she  was  a  faithful  handmaiden  to  her  husband, 
that  she  adored  the  ground  he  walked  on. 

"Such  a  nice  little  woman — so  homelike.  It's  curious  that 
he  should  have  married  her,  though,  isn't  it?  They  are  so  dif- 
ferent. And  yet  they  appear  to  have  lots  of  things  in  common, 
too.  It's  strange — isn't  it?" 


CHAPTER    XLIV 

IT  was  in  the  course  of  his  final  upward  progress  that  Eugene 
came  once  more  into  contact  with  Kenyon  C.  Winfield,  Ex- 
State  Senator  of  New  York,  President  of  the  Long  Island 
Realty  Company,  land  developer,  real  estate  plunger,  financier, 
artist,  what  not — a  man  very  much  of  Eugene's  own  type  and 
temperament,  who  at  this  time  was  doing  rather  remarkable 
things  in  a  land  speculative  way.  Winfield  was  tall  and  thin, 
black  haired,  black  eyed,  slightly  but  not  offensively  hook  nosed, 
dignified,  gracious,  intellectual,  magnetic,  optimistic.  He  was 
forty-eight  years  of  age.  Winfield  was  a  very  fair  sample  of 
your  man  of  the  world  who  has  ideas,  dreams,  fancies,  executive 
ability,  a  certain  amount  of  reserve  and  judgment,  sufficient  to 
hold  his  own  in  this  very  complicated  mortal  struggle.  He  was 
not  really  a  great  man,  but  he  was  so  near  it  that  he  gave  the 
impression  to  many  of  being  so.  His  deep  sunken  black  eyes 
burned  with  a  peculiar  lustre,  one  might  almost  have  fancied 
a  tint  of  red  in  them.  His  pale,  slightly  sunken  face  had  some 
of  the  characteristics  of  your  polished  Mephisto,  though  not  too 
many.  He  was  not  at  all  devilish  looking  in  the  true  sense 
of  the  word,  but  keen,  subtle,  artistic.  His  method  was  to  in- 
gratiate himself  with  men  who  had  money  in  order  to  get  from 
them  the  vast  sums  which  he  found  it  necessary  to  borrow  to 
carry  out  the  schemes  or  rather  dreams  he  was  constantly  gen- 
erating. His  fancies  were  always  too  big  for  his  purse,  but  he 
had  such  lovely  fancies  that  it  was  a  joy  to  work  with  them 
and  him. 

Primarily  Winfield  was  a  real  estate  speculator,  secondarily 
he  was  a  dreamer  of  dreams  and  seer  of  visions.  His  visions 
consisted  of  lovely  country  areas  near  some  city  stocked  with 
charming  country  houses,  cut  up  with  well  paved,  tree  shaded 
roads,  provided  with  sewers,  gas,  electricity,  suitable  railway  serv- 
ice, street  cars  and  all  the  comforts  of  a  well  organized  living 
district  which  should  be  at  once  retired,  exclusive,  pleasing,  con- 
servative and  yet  bound  up  tightly  with  the  great  Metropolitan 
heart  of  New  York  which  he  so  greatly  admired.  Winfield  had 
been  born  and  raised  in  Brooklyn.  He  had  been  a  politician, 
orator,  insurance  dealer,  contractor,  and  so  on.  He  had  suc- 
ceeded in  organizing  various  suburban  estates — Winfield,  Sunny- 
side,  Ruritania,  The  Beeches — little  forty,  fifty,  one  hundred  and 

492 


THE    "GENIUS"  493 

two  hundred  acre  flats  which  with  the  help  of  "O.  P.  M."  as  he 
always  called  other  people's  money  he  had  divided  off  into  blocks, 
laying  out  charmingly  with  trees  and  sometimes  a  strip  of  green 
grass  running  down  the  centre,  concrete  sidewalks,  a  set  of 
noble  restrictions,  and  so  forth.  Anyone  who  ever  came  to  look 
at  a  lot  in  one  of  Winfield's  perfect  suburbs  always  found  the 
choicest  piece  of  property  in  the  centre  of  this  latest  burst  of  im- 
provement set  aside  for  the  magnificent  house  which  Mr.  Kenyon 
C.  Winfield,  the  president  of  the  company,  was  to  build  and  live 
in.  Needless  to  say  they  were  never  built.  He  had  been 
round  the  world  and  seen  a  great  many  things  and  places,  but 
Winfield  or  Sunnyside  or  Ruritania  or  The  Beeches,  so  the  lot 
buyers  in  these  places  were  told,  had  been  finally  selected  by 
him  deliberately  as  the  one  spot  in  all  the  world  in  which  he 
hoped  to  spend  the  remainder  of  his  days. 

At  the  time  Eugene  met  him,  he  was  planning  Minetta  Water 
on  the  shores  of  Gravesend  Bay,  which  was  the  most  ambitious 
of  all  his  projects  so  far.  He  was  being  followed  financially, 
by  a  certain  number  of  Brooklyn  politicians  and  financiers  who 
had  seen  him  succeed  in  small  things,  taking  a  profit  of  from 
three  to  four  hundred  per  cent,  out  of  ten,  twenty  and  thirty 
acre  flats,  but  for  all  his  brilliance  it  had  been  slow  work.  He 
was  now  worth  between  three  and  four  hundred  thousand  dol- 
lars and,  for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  was  beginning  to  feel  that 
freedom  in  financial  matters  which  made  him  think  that  he  could 
do  almost  anything.  He  had  met  all  sorts  of  people,  lawyers, 
bankers,  doctors,  merchants,  the  "easy  classes"  he  called  them, 
all  with  a  little  money  to  invest,  and  he  had  succeeded  in  luring 
hundreds  of  worth-while  people  into  his  projects.  His  great 
dreams  had  never  really  been  realized,  however,  for  he  saw 
visions  of  a  great  warehouse  and  shipping  system  to  be  established 
on  Jamaica  Bay,  out  of  which  he  was  to  make  millions,  if  it 
ever  came  to  pass,  and  also  a  magnificent  summer  resort  of  some 
kind,  somewhere,  which  was  not  yet  clearly  evolved  in  his  mind. 
His  ads  were  scattered  freely  through  the  newspapers:  his  signs, 
or  rather  the  signs  of  his  towns,  scattered  broadcast  over  Long 
Island. 

Eugene  had  met  him  first  when  he  was  working  with  the  Sum- 
merfield  Company,  but  he  met  him  this  time  quite  anew  at  the 
home  of  the  W.  W.  Willebrand  on  the  North  Shore  of  Long 
Island  near  Hempstead.  He  had  gone  down  there  one  Saturday 
afternoon  at  the  invitation  of  Mrs.  Willebrand,  whom  he  had 
met  at  another  house  party  and  with  whom  he  had  danced.  She 
had  been  pleased  with  his  gay,  vivacious  manner  and  had  asked 


494  THE    "GENIUS' 

him  if  he  wouldn't  come.  Winfield  was  here  as  a  guest  with  his 
automobile. 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  Winfield  pleasantly.  "I  recall  you  very  well. 
You  are  now  with  the  United  Magazines  Corporation, — I  un- 
derstand— someone  was  telling  me — a  most  prosperous  com- 
pany, I  believe.  I  know  Mr.  Coif  ax  very  well.  I  once  spoke 
to  Summerfield  about  you.  A  most  astonishing  fellow,  that, 
tremendously  able.  You  were  doing  that  series  of  sugar  planta- 
tion ads  for  them  or  having  them  done.  I  think  I  copied  the 
spirit  of  those  things  in  advertising  Ruritania,  as  you  may  have 
noticed.  Well,  you  certainly  have  improved  your  condition 
since  then.  I  once  tried  to  tell  Summerfield  that  he  had  an  ex- 
ceptional man  in  you,  but  he  would  have  nothing  of  it.  He's 
too  much  of  an  egoist.  He  doesn't  know  how  to  work  with  a 
man  on  equal  terms." 

Eugene  smiled  at  the  thought  of  Summerfield. 

"An  able  man,"  he  said  simply.    "He  did  a  great  deal  for  me." 

Winfield  liked  that.  He  thought  Eugene  would  criticize 
him.  He  liked  Eugene's  genial  manner  and  intelligent,  expres- 
sive face.  It  occurred  to  him  that  when  next  he  wranted  to 
advertise  one  of  his  big  development  projects,  he  would  go  to 
Eugene  or  the  man  who  had  done  the  sugar  plantation  series  of 
pictures  and  get  him  to  give  him  the  right  idea  for  advertising. 

Affinity  is  such  a  peculiar  thing.  It  draws  people  so  easily, 
apart  from  volition  or  consciousness.  In  a  few  moments  Eugene 
and  Winfield,  sitting  side  by  side  on  the  veranda,  looking  at  the 
greenwood  before  them,  the  long  stretch  of  open  sound,  dotted 
with  white  sails  and  the  dim,  distant  shore  of  Connecticut,  were 
talking  of  real  estate  ventures  in  general,  what  land  was  worth, 
how  speculations  of  this  kind  turned  out,  as  a  rule.  Winfield 
was  anxious  to  take  Eugene  seriously,  for  he  felt  drawn  to  him 
and  Eugene  studied  Winfield's  pale  face,  his  thin,  immaculate 
hands,  his  suit  of  soft,  gray  cloth.  He  looked  as  able  as  his  pub- 
lic reputation  made  him  out  to  be — in  fact,  he  looked  better 
than  anything  he  had  ever  done.  Eugene  had  seen  Ruritania  and 
The  Beeches.  They  did  not  impress  him  vastly  as  territorial 
improvements,  but  they  were  pretty,  nevertheless.  For  middle- 
class  people,  they  were  quite  the  thing  he  thought. 

"I  should  think  it  would  be  a  pleasure  to  you  to  scheme 
out  a  new  section,"  he  said  to  him  once.  "The  idea  of  a  virgin 
piece  of  land  to  be  converted  into  streets  and  houses  or  a  village 
appeals  to  me  immensely.  The  idea  of  laying  it  out  and  sketching 
houses  to  fit  certain  positions,  suits  my  temperament  exactly.  I 
wish  sometimes  I  had  been  born  an  architect." 


THE    "GENIUS'1  495 

"It  is  pleasant  and  if  that  were  all  it  would  be  ideal," 
returned  Winfield.  "The  thing  is  more  a  matter  of  financing 
than  anything  else.  You  have  to  raise  money  for  land  and 
improvements.  If  you  make  exceptional  improvements  they  are 
expensive.  You  really  can't  expect  to  get  much,  if  any,  of  your 
money  back,  until  all  your  work  is  done.  Then  you  have  to 
wait.  If  you  put  up  houses  you  can't  rent  them,  for  the  moment 
you  rent  them,  you  can't  sell  them  as  new.  When  you  make 
your  improvements  your  taxes  go  up  immediately.  If  you  sell 
a  piece  of  property  to  a  man  or  woman  who  isn't  exactly  in 
accord  with  your  scheme,  he  or  she  may  put  up  a  house  which 
destroys  the  value  of  a  whole  neighborhood  for  you.  You  can't 
fix  the  details  of  a  design  in  a  contract  too  closely.  You  can 
only  specify  the  minimum  price  the  house  is  to  cost  and  the  na- 
ture of  the  materials  to  be  used.  Some  people's  idea  of  beauty 
will  vary  vastly  from  others.  Taste  in  sections  may  change. 
A  whole  city  like  New  York  may  suddenly  decide  that  it 
wants  to  build  west  when  you  are  figuring  on  its  building  east. 
So — well,  all  these  things  have  to  be  taken  into  consideration." 

"That  sounds  logical  enough,"  said  Eugene,  "but  wouldn't 
the  right  sort  of  a  scheme  just  naturally  draw  to  itself  the  right 
sort  of  people,  if  it  were  presented  in  the  right  way?  Don't 
you  fix  the  conditions  by  your  own  attitude?" 

"You  do,  you  do,"  replied  Winfield,  easily.  "If  you  give  the 
matter  sufficient  care  and  attention  it  can  be  done.  The  pity 
is  you  can  be  too  fine  at  times.  I  have  seen  attempts  at  perfec- 
tion come  to  nothing.  People  with  taste  and  tradition  and  money 
behind  them  are  not  moving  into  new  additions  and  suburbs, 
as  a  rule.  You  are  dealing  with  the  new  rich  and  financial  be- 
ginners. Most  people  strain  their  resources  to  the  breaking 
point  to  better  their  living  conditions  and  they  don't  always 
know.  If  they  have  the  money,  it  doesn't  always  follow  that 
they  have  the  taste  to  grasp  what  you  are  striving  for,  and  if 
they  have  the  taste  they  haven't  the  money.  They  would  do 
better  if  they  could,  but  they  can't.  A  man  in  my  position  is 
like  an  artist  and  a  teacher  and  a  father  confessor  and  financier 
and  everything  all  rolled  into  one.  When  you  start  to  be  a  real 
estate  developer  on  a  big  scale  you  must  be  these  things.  I 
have  had  some  successes  and  some  notable  failures.  Winfield  is 
one  of  the  worst.  It's  disgusting  to  me  now." 

"I  have  always  wished  I  could  lay  out  a  seaside  resort  or  a 
suburb,"  said  Eugene  dreamily.  "I've  never  been  to  but  one  or 
two  of  the  resorts  abroad,  but  it  strikes  me  that  none  of  the  re- 
sorts here — certainly  none  near  New  York — are  right.  The  op- 


496  THE    "GENIUS" 

portunities  are  so  wonderful.  The  things  that  have  been  done 
are  horrible.  There  is  no  plan,  no  detail  anywhere." 

"My  views  exactly,"  said  Winfield.  "I've  been  thinking  of  it 
for  years.  Some  such  place  could  be  built,  and  I  suppose  if 
it  were  done  right  it  would  be  successful.  It  would  be  expen- 
sive, though,  very,  and  those  who  come  in  would  have  a  long 
wait  for  their  money." 

"It  would  be  a  great  opportunity  to  do  something  really 
worth  while,  though,"  said  Eugene.  "No  one  seems  to  realize 
how  beautiful  a  thing  like  that  could  be  made." 

Winfield  said  nothing,  but  the  thought  stuck  in  his  mind.  He 
was  dreaming  a  seaside  improvement  which  should  be  the  most 
perfect  place  of  its  kind  in  the  world — a  monument  to  himself  if 
he  did  it.  If  Eugene  had  this  idea  of  beauty  he  might  help. 
At  least  he  might  talk  to  him  about  it  when  the  time  came. 
Perhaps  Eugene  might  have  a  little  money  to  invest.  It  would 
take  millions  to  put  such  a  scheme  through,  but  every  little 
would  help.  Besides  Eugene  might  have  ideas  which  should 
make  money  both  for  himself  and  for  Winfield.  It  was  worth 
thinking  about.  So  they  parted,  not  to  meet  again  for  weeks 
and  months,  but  they  did  not  forget  each  other. 


BOOK  III 
THE    REVOLT 


497 


CHAPTER  I 

IT  was  when  Eugene  was  at  the  height  of  his  success  that  a 
meeting  took  place  between  himself  and   a  certain   Mrs. 
Emily  Dale. 

Mrs.  Dale  was  a  strikingly  beautiful  and  intelligent  widow 
of  thirty-eight,  the  daughter  of  a  well-to-do  and  somewhat 
famous  New  York  family  of  Dutch  extraction — the  widow 
of  an  eminent  banker  of  considerable  wealth  who  had  been 
killed  in  an  automobile  accident  near  Paris  some  years  be- 
fore. She  was  the  mother  of  four  children,  Suzanne,  eighteen; 
Kinroy,  fifteen;  Adele,  twelve,  and  Ninette,  nine,  but  the  size 
of  her  family  had  in  no  way  affected  the  subtlety  of  her  social 
personality  and  the  delicacy  of  her  charm  and  manner.  She  was 
tall,  graceful,  willowy,  with  a  wealth  of  dark  hair,  which  was 
used  in  the  most  subtle  manner  to  enhance  the  beauty  of  her 
face.  She  was  calm,  placid  apparently,  while  really  running 
deep  with  emotion  and  fancies,  with  manners  which  were  the 
perfection  of  kindly  courtesy  and  good  breeding  and  with  those 
airs  of  superiority  which  come  so  naturally  to  those  who  are 
raised  in  a  fortunate  and  exclusive  atmosphere. 

She  did  not  consider  herself  passionate  in  a  marked  degree, 
but  freely  admitted  to  herself  that  she  was  vain  and  coquettish. 
She  was  keen  and  observing,  with  a  single  eye  to  the  main  chance 
socially,  but  with  a  genuine  love  for  literature  and  art  and  a 
propensity  to  write.  Eugene  met  her  through  Colfax,  who  in- 
troduced him  to  her.  He  learned  from  the  latter  that  she  was 
rather  unfortunate  in  her  marriage  except  from  a  money  point 
of  view,  and  that  her  husband's  death  was  no  irreparable  loss. 
He  also  learned  from  the  same  source  that  she  was  a  good  mother, 
trying  to  bring  up  her  children  in  the  manner  most  suitable  to 
their  station  and  opportunities.  Her  husband  had  been  of  a 
much  poorer  social  origin  than  herself,  but  her  own  standing 
was  of  the  very  best.  She  was  a  gay  social  figure,  being  in- 
vited much,  entertaining  freely,  preferring  the  company  of 
younger  men  to  those  of  her  own  age  or  older  and  being  fol- 
lowed ardently  by  one  fortune  hunter  and  another,  who  saw 
in  her  beauty,  wealth  and  station,  an  easy  door  to  the  heaven 
of  social  supremacy. 

The  Dale  home,  or  homes  rather,  were  in  several  different 
places — one  at  Morristown,  New  Jersey,  another  on  fashionable 

499 


5oo  THE    "GENIUS  ' 

Grimes  Hill  on  Staten  Island,  a  third — a  city  residence,  which 
at  the  time  Eugene  met  them,  was  leased  for  a  term  of  years — 
was  in  Sixty-seventh  Street,  near  Fifth  Avenue  in  New  York 
City,  and  a  fourth,  a  small  lodge,  at  Lenox,  Massachusetts, 
which  was  also  rented.  Shortly  after  he  met  her  the  house 
at  Morristown  was  closed  and  the  lodge  at  Lenox  re-occupied. 

For  the  most  part  Mrs.  Dale  preferred  to  dwell  in  her  an- 
cestral home  on  Staten  Island,  which,  because  of  its  commanding 
position  on  what  was  known  as  Grimes  Hill,  controlled  a 
magnificent  view  of  the  bay  and  harbor  of  New  York.  Man- 
hattan, its  lower  wall  of  buildings,  lay  like  a  cloud  at  the  north. 
The  rocking  floor  of  the  sea,  blue  and  gray  and  slate  black  by 
turn,  spread  to  the  east.  In  the  west  were  visible  the  Kill  von 
Kull  with  its  mass  of  shipping  and  the  Orange  Hills.  In  a  boat 
club  at  Tompkinsville  she  had  her  motor  boat,  used  mostly  by 
her  boy;  in  her  garage  at  Grimes  Hill,  several  automobiles.  She 
owned  several  riding  horses,  retained  four  family  servants  perma- 
nently and  in  other  ways  possessed  all  those  niceties  of  appoint- 
ment which  make  up  the  comfortable  life  of  wealth  and  ease. 

The  two  youngest  of  her  girls  were  in  a  fashionable  boarding 
school  at  Tarrytown;  the  boy,  Kinroy,  was  preparing  for  Har- 
vard ;  Suzanne,  the  eldest,  was  at  home,  fresh  from  boarding 
school  experiences,  beginning  to  go  out  socially.  Her  debut  had 
already  been  made.  Suzanne  was  a  peculiar  girl,  plump,  beau- 
tiful, moody,  with,  at  times,  a  dreamy  air  of  indifference  and 
a  smile  that  ran  like  a  breath  of  air  over  water.  Her  eyes  were 
large,  of  a  vague  blue-gray,  her  lips  rosy  and  arched ;  her  cheeks 
full  and  pink.  She  had  a  crown  of  light  chestnut  hair,  a  body 
at  once  innocent  and  voluptuous  in  its  outlines.  When  she 
laughed  it  was  a  rippling  gurgle,  and  her  sense  of  humor  was  per- 
fect, if  not  exaggerated.  One  of  those  naturally  wise  but  as 
yet  vague  and  formless  artistic  types,  which  suspect  without 
education,  nearly  all  the  subtleties  of  the  world,  and  burst 
forth  full  winged  and  beautiful,  but  oh,  so  fragile,  like  a  but- 
terfly from  its  chrysalis,  the  radiance  of  morning  upon  its  body. 
Eugene  did  not  see  her  for  a  long  time  after  he  met  Mrs. 
Dale,  but  when  he  did,  he  was  greatly  impressed  with  her 
beauty. 

Life  sometimes  builds  an  enigma  out  of  common  clay,  and 
with  a  look  from  a  twelve-year-old  girl,  sets  a  Dante  singing. 
It  can  make  a  god  of  a  bull,  a  divinity  of  an  ibis,  or  a  beetle, 
set  up  a  golden  calf  to  be  worshipped  of  the  multitude.  Para- 
dox! Paradox!  In  this  case  an  immature  and  yet  nearly  per- 
fect body  held  a  seemingly  poetic  and  yet  utterly  nebulous  ap- 


THE    "GENIUS'  501 

preciation  of  life — a  body  so  youthful,  a  soul  so  fumbling  that 
one  would  ask,  How  should  tragedy  lurk  in  form  like  this? 

A  fool? 

Not  quite,  yet  so  nebulous,  so  much  a  dreamer  that  difficulty 
might  readily  follow  in  the  wake  of  any  thoughtless  deed. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  favored  as  she  was  by  nature  and  fortune, 
her  very  presence  was  dangerous — provocative,  without  thought 
of  being  so.  If  a  true  artist  had  painted  her,  synthesizing  her 
spirit  with  her  body,  he  might  have  done  so  showing  her  standing 
erect  on  a  mountain  top,  her  limbs  outlined  amidst  fluttering 
draperies  against  the  wind,  her  eyes  fixed  on  distant  heights, 
or  a  falling  star.  Out  of  mystery  into  mystery  again,  so  she 
came  and  went.  Her  mind  was  not  unlike  a  cloud  of  mist 
through  which  the  morning  sun  is  endeavoring  to  break,  irradiat- 
ing all  with  its  flushes  of  pink  and  gold.  Again  it  was  like* 
those  impearled  shells  of  the  South  Sea,  without  design  yet 
suggestive  of  all  perfections  and  all  beauties.  Dreams!  dreams! — 
of  clouds,  sunsets,  colors,  sounds  which  a  too  articulate  world 
would  do  its  best  later  to  corrupt.  What  Dante  saw  in  Beatrice, 
what  Abelard  saw  in  Heloise,  Romeo  in  Juliet,  so  some  won- 
dering swain  could  have  seen  in  her — and  suffered  a  like  fate. 

Eugene  encountered  Mrs.  Dale  at  a  house  party  on  Long 
Island  one  Saturday  afternoon,  and  their  friendship  began  at  once. 
She  was  introduced  to  him  by  Colfax,  and  because  of  the 
latter's  brusque,  jesting  spirit  was  under  no  illusions  as  to  his 
social  state. 

"You  needn't  look  at  him  closely,"  he  observed  gaily,  "he's 
married." 

"That  simply  makes  him  all  the  more  interesting,"  she  rippled, 
and  extended  her  hand. 

Eugene  took  it.  "I'm  glad  a  poor  married  man  can  find  shel- 
ter somewhere,"  he  said,  smartly. 

"You  should  rejoice,"  she  replied.  "It's  at  once  your  liberty 
and  your  protection.  Think  how  safe  you  are!" 

"I  know,  I  know,"  he  said.  "All  the  slings  and  arrows  of 
Miss  Fortune  hurtling  by." 

"And  you  in  no  danger  of  being  hurt." 

He  offered  her  his  arm,  and  they  strolled  through  a  window 
onto  a  veranda. 

The  day  was  just  the  least  bit  dull  for  Mrs.  Dale.  Bridge 
was  in  progress  in  the  card  room,  a  company  of  women  and  girls 
gambling  feverishly.  Eugene  was  not  good  at  bridge,  not  quick 
enough  mentally,  and  Mrs.  Dale  did  not  care  much  for  it. 

"I  have  been  trying  to  stir  up  enough  interest  to  bring  to 


502  THE    (!  'GENIUS11 

pass  a  motor  ride,  but  it  doesn't  work/5  she  said.  "They  all 
have  the  gambling  fever  today.  Are  you  as  greedy  as  the 
others?" 

"I'm  greedy  I  assure  you,  but  I  can't  play.  The  greediest 
thing  I  can  do  is  to  stay  away  from  the  tables.  I  save  most. 
That  sharp  Faraday  has  cleaned  me  and  two  others  out  of  four 
hundred  dollars.  It's  astonishing  the  way  some  people  can 
play.  They  just  look  at  the  cards  or  make  mystic  signs  and  the 
wretched  things  range  themselves  in  serried  ranks  to  suit  them. 
It's  a  crime.  It  ought  to  be  a  penitentiary  offense,  particularly 
to  beat  me.  I'm  such  an  inoffensive  specimen  of  the  non-bridge 
playing  family." 

"A  burnt  child,  you  know.  Stay  away.  Let's  sit  here.  They 
can't  come  out  here  and  rob  you." 

They  sat  down  in  green  willow  chairs,  and  after  a  time  a 
servant  offered  them  coffee.  Mrs.  Dale  accepted.  They  drifted 
conversationally  from  bridge  to  characters  in  society — a  certain 
climber  by  the  name  of  Bristow,  a  man  who  had  made  a  for- 
tune in  trunks — and  from  him  to  travel  and  from  travel  to  Mrs. 
Dale's  experiences  with  fortune  hunters.  The  automobile  ma- 
terialized through  the  intervention  of  others,  but  Eugene  found 
great  satisfaction  in  this  woman's  company  and  sat  beside  her. 
They  talked  books,  art,  magazines,  the  making  of  fortunes  and 
reputations.  Because  he  was  or  seemed  to  be  in  a  position  to 
assist  her  in  a  literary  way  she  was  particularly  nice  to  him. 
When  he  was  leaving  she  asked,  "Where  are  you  in  New 
York?" 

"Riverside  Drive  is  our  present  abode,"  he  said. 

"Why  don't  you  bring  Mrs.  Witla  and  come  down  to  see  us 
some  week-end  ?  I  usually  have  a  few  people  there,  and  the  house 
is  roomy.  I'll  name  you  a  special  day  if  you  wish." 

"Do.  We'll  be  delighted.  Mrs.  Witla  will  enjoy  it,  I'm 
sure." 

Mrs.  Dale  wrote  to  Angela  ten  days  later  as  to  a  particular 
date,  and  in  this  way  the  social  intimacy  began. 

It  was  never  of  a  very  definite  character,  though.  When 
Mrs.  Dale  met  Angela  she  liked  her  quite  well  as  an  individual, 
whatever  she  may  have  thought  of  her  as  a  social  figure.  Neither 
Eugene  nor  Angela  saw  Suzanne  nor  any  of  the  other  children 
on  this  occasion,  all  of  them  being  away.  Eugene  admired 
the  view  tremendously  and  hinted  at  being  invited  again.  Mrs. 
Dale  was  delighted.  She  liked  him  as  a  man  entirely  apart  from 
his  position  but  particularly  because  of  his  publishing  station. 
She  was  ambitious  to  write.  Others  had  told  her  that  he  was 


THE   "GENIUS11  503 

the  most  conspicuous  of  the  rising  figures  in  the  publishing 
world.  Being  friendly  with  him  would  give  her  exceptional 
standing  with  all  his  editors.  She  was  only  too  pleased  to  be 
gracious  to  him.  He  was  invited  again  and  a  third  time,  with 
Angela,  and  it  seemed  as  though  they  were  reaching,  or  might 
at  least  reach,  something  much  more  definite  than  a  mere  social 
acquaintance. 

It  was  about  six  months  after  Eugene  had  first  met  Mrs. 
Dale  that  Angela  gave  a  tea,  and  Eugene,  in  assisting  her  to 
prepare  the  list  of  invitations,  had  suggested  that  those  who 
were  to  serve  the  tea  and  cakes  should  be  two  exceptionally 
pretty  girls  who  were  accustomed  to  come  to  the  Witla  apart- 
ment, Florence  Reel,  the  daughter  of  a  well-known  author  of 
that  name  and  Marjorie  Mac  Tennan,  the  daughter  of  a  well- 
known  editor,  both  beautiful  and  talented,  one  with  singing 
and  the  other  with  art  ambitions.  Angela  had  seen  a  picture 
of  Suzanne  Dale  in  her  mother's  room  at  Daleview  on  Grimes 
Hill,  and  had  been  particularly  taken  with  her  girlish  charm  and 
beauty. 

"I  wonder,"  she  said,  "if  Mrs.  Dale  would  object  to  having 
Suzanne  come  and  help  serve  that  day.  She  would  like  it,  I'm 
sure,  there  are  going  to  be  so  many  clever  people  here.  We 
haven't  seen  her,  but  that  doesn't  matter.  It  would  be  a  nice 
way  to  introduce  herself." 

"That's  a  good  idea,  I  should  say,"  observed  Eugene  judi- 
cially. He  had  seen  the  photo  of  Suzanne  and  liked  it,  though 
he  was  not  over-impressed.  Photos  to  him  were  usually  gross 
deceivers.  He  accepted  them  always  with  reservations.  Angela 
forthwith  wrote  to  Mrs.  Dale,  who  agreed.  She  would  be  glad 
to  come  herself.  She  had  seen  the  Witla  apartment,  and  had 
been  very  much  pleased  with  it.  The  reception  day  came  and 
Angela  begged  Eugene  to  come  home  early. 

"I  know  you  don't  like  to  be  alone  with  a  whole  roomful 
of  people,  but  Mr.  Goodrich  is  coming,  and  Frederick  Allen  (one 
of  their  friends  who  had  taken  a  fancy  to  Eugene),  Arturo 
Scalchero  is  going  to  sing  and  Bonavita  to  play."  Scalchero  was 
none  other  than  Arthur  Skalger,  of  Port  Jervis,  New  Jersey, 
but  he  assumed  this  corruption  of  his  name  in  Italy  to  help  him 
to  succeess.  Bonavita  was  truly  a  Spanish  pianist  of  some  re- 
pute who  was  flattered  to  be  invited  to  Eugene's  home. 

"Well,  I  don't  care  much  about  it,"  replied  Eugene.  "But 
I  will  come." 

He  frequently  felt  that  afternoon  teas  and  receptions  were 
ridiculous  affairs,  and  that  he  had  far  better  be  in  his  office  at- 


504  THE    "GENIUS" 

tending  to  his  multitudinous  duties.  Still  he  did  leave  early,  and 
at  five-thirty  was  ushered  into  a  great  roomful  of  chattering, 
gesticulating,  laughing  people.  A  song  by  Florence  Reel  had 
just  been  concluded.  Like  all  girls  of  ambition,  vivacity  and 
imagination,  she  took  an  interest  in  Eugene,  for  in  his  smiling 
face  she  found  a  responsive  gleam. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Witla!"  she  exclaimed.  "Now  here  you  are  and 
you  just  missed  my  song.  And  I  wanted  you  to  hear  it,  too." 

"Don't  grieve,  Florrie,"  he  said  familiarly,  holding  her  hand 
and  looking  momentarily  in  her  eyes.  "You're  going  to  sing  it 
again  for  me.  I  heard  part  of  it  as  I  came  up  on  the  elevator." 
He  relinquished  her  hand.  "Why,  Mrs.  Dale!  Delighted,  I'm 
sure.  So  nice  of  you.  And  Arturo  Scalchero — hullo,  Skalger, 
you  old  frost!  Where'd  you  get  the  Italian  name?  Bonavita! 
Fine!  Am  I  going  to  hear  you  play?  All  over?  Alas!  Mar- 
jorie  Mac  Tennan!  Gee,  but  you  look  sweet!  If  Mrs.  Witla 
weren't  watching  me,  I'd  kiss  you.  Oh,  the  pretty  bonnet! 
And  Frederick  Allen !  My  word !  What  are  you  trying  to  grab 
off,  Allen?  I'm  on  to  you.  No  bluffs!  Nix!  Nix!  Why,  Mrs. 
Schenck — delighted!  Angela,  why  didn't  you  tell  me  Mrs. 
Schenck  was  coming?  I'd  have  been  home  at  three." 

By  this  time  he  had  reached  the  east  end  of  the  great  studio 
room,  farthest  from  the  river.  Here  a  tea  table  was  spread 
with  a  silver  tea  service,  and  behind  it  a  girl,  oval-faced, 
radiantly  healthy,  her  full  lips  parted  in  a  ripe  smile,  her 
blue-gray  eyes  talking  pleasure  and  satisfaction,  her  forehead 
laid  about  by  a  silver  filigree  band,  beneath  which  her  brown 
chestnut  curls  protruded.  Her  hands,  Eugene  noted,  were 
plump  and  fair.  She  stood  erect,  assured,  with  the  least  touch 
of  quizzical  light  in  her  eye.  A  white,  pink-bordered  dress 
draped  her  girlish  figure. 

"I  don't  know,"  he  said  easily,  "but  I  wager  a  guess  that  this 
is — that  this  is — this  is  Suzanne  Dale — what?" 

"Yes,  this  is,"  she  replied  laughingly.  "Can  I  give  you  a 
cup  of  tea,  Mr.  Witla?  I  know  you  are  Mr.  Witla  from  ma- 
ma"'s  description  and  the  way  in  which  you  talk  to  everybody." 

"And  how  do  I  talk  to  everybody,  may  I  ask,  pleasum?" 

"Oh,  I  can't  tell  you  so  easily.  I  mean,  I  can't  find  the  words, 
you  know.  I  know  how  it  is,  though.  Familiarly,  I  suppose  I 
mean.  Will  you  have  one  lump  or  two?" 

"Three  an  thou  pleasest.  Didn't  your  mother  tell  me  you 
sang  or  played?" 

"Oh,  you  mustn't  believe  anything  ma-ma'  says  about  me! 
She's  apt  to  say  anything.  Tee!  Hee!  It  makes  me  laugh" — 


THE    "GENIUS'  505 

she  pronounced  it  laaf — "to  think  of  my  playing.  My  teacher 
says  he  would  like  to  strike  my  knuckles.  Oh,  dear!"  (She 
went  into  a  gale  of  giggles.)  "And  sing!  Oh,  dear,  dear! 
That  is  too  good!" 

Eugene  watched  her  pretty  face  intently.  Her  mouth  and 
nose  and  eyes  fascinated  him.  She  was  so  sweet!  He  noted  the 
configuration  of  her  lips  and  cheeks  and  chin.  The  nose  was 
delicate,  beautifully  formed,  fat,  not  sensitive.  The  ears  were 
small,  the  eyes  large  and  wide  set,  the  forehead  naturally  high, 
but  so  concealed  by  curls  that  it  seemed  low.  She  had  a  few 
freckles  and  a  very  small  dimple  in  her  chin. 

"Now  you  mustn't  laugh  like  that,"  he  said  mock  solemnly. 
"It's  very  serious  business,  this  laughing.  In  the  first  place,  it's 
against  the  rules  of  this  apartment.  No  one  is  ever,  ever,  ever  sup- 
posed to  laugh  here,  particularly  young  ladies  who  pour  tea. 
Tea,  Epictetus  well  says,  involves  the  most  serious  conceptions 
of  one's  privileges  and  duties.  It  is  the  high-born  prerogative  of 
tea  servers  to  grin  occasionally,  but  never,  never,  never  under 
any  circumstances  whatsoever Suzanne's  lips  were  be- 
ginning to  part  ravishingly  in  anticipation  of  a  burst  of  laughter. 

"What's  all  the  excitement  about,  Witla?"  asked  Skalger, 
who  had  drifted  to  his  side.  "Why  this  sudden  cessation  of 
progress?" 

"Tea,  my  son,  tea!"  said  Eugene.    "Have  a  cup  with  me?" 

"I  will." 

"He's  trying  to  tell  me,  Mr.  Skalger,  that  I  should  never  laaf. 
I  must  only  grin."  Her  lips  parted  and  she  laughed  joyously. 
Eugene  laughed  with  her.  He  could  not  help  it.  "Ma-ma'  says 
I  giggle  all  the  time.  I  wouldn't  do  very  well  here,  would  I  ?" 

She  always  pronounced  it  "ma-ma'." 

She  turned  to  Eugene  again  with  big  smiling  eyes. 

"Exceptions,  exceptions.  I  might  make  exceptions — one  ex- 
ception— but  not  more." 

"Why  one?"  she  asked  archly. 

"Oh,  just  to  hear  a  natural  laugh,"  he  said  a  little  plaintively. 
"Just  to  hear  a  real  joyous  laugh.  Can  you  laugh  joyously?" 

She  giggled  again  at  this,  and  he  was  about  to  tell  her  how 
joyously  she  did  laugh  when  Angela  called  him  away  to  hear 
Florence  Reel,  who  was  going  to  sing  again  for  his  especial  bene- 
fit. He  parted  from  Miss  Dale  reluctantly,  for  she  seemed  some 
delicious  figure  as  delicately  colorful  as  Royal  Dresden,  as  per- 
fect in  her  moods  as  a  spring  evening,  as  soft,  soulful,  enticing 
as  a  strain  of  music  heard  through  the  night  at  a  distance  or  over 
the  water.  He  went  over  to  where  Florence  Reel  was  standing, 


506  THE    "GENIUS" 

listening  in  a  sympathetic  melancholy  vein  to  a  delightful  ren- 
dering of  "The  Summer  Winds  Are  Blowing,  Blowing."  All 
the  while  he  could  not  help  thinking  of  Suzanne — letting  his  eyes 
stray  in  that  direction.  He  talked  to  Mrs.  Dale,  to  Henrietta 
Tenmon,  to  Luke  Severas,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Dula,  Payalei  Stone, 
now  a  writer  of  special  articles,  and  others,  but  he  couldn't  help 
longing  to  go  back  to  her.  How  sweet  she  was !  How  very  de- 
lightful! If  he  could  only,  once  more  in  his  life,  have  the  love 
of  a  girl  like  that! 

The  guests  began  to  depart.  Angela  and  Eugene  bustled  about 
the  farewells.  Because  of  the  duties  of  her  daughter,  which  con- 
tinued to  the  end,  Mrs.  Dale  stayed,  talking  to  Arthur  Skalger. 
Eugene  was  in  and  out  between  the  studio  and  cloak  room  off 
the  entry  way.  Now  and  then  he  caught  glimpses  of  Suzanne 
demurely  standing  by  her  tea  cups  and  samovar.  For  years 
he  had  seen  nothing  so  fresh  and  young,  as  her  body.  She  was 
like  a  new  grown  wet  white  lily  pod  in  the  dawn  of  the  year. 
She  seemed  to  have  the  texture  of  the  water  chestnut  and  the 
lush,  fat  vegetables  of  the  spring.  Her  eyes  were  as  clear  as 
water;  her  skin  as  radiant  new  ivory.  There  was  no  sign  of 
weariness  about  her,  nor  any  care,  nor  any  thought  of  evil,  nor 
anything  except  health  and  happiness.  "Such  a  face !"  he  thought 
casually  in  passing.  "She  is  as  sweet  as  any  girl  could  be.  As 
radiant  as  light  itself." 

Incidentally  the  personality  of  Frieda  Roth  came  back,  and — 
long  before  her — Stella  Appleton. 

"Youth!  Youth!  What  in  this  world  could  be  finer — more 
acceptable !  Where  would  you  find  its  equal  ?  After  all  the  dust 
of  the  streets  and  the  spectacle  of  age  and  weariness — the  crow's 
feet  about  people's  eyes,  the  wrinkles  in  their  necks,  the  make- 
believe  of  rouge  and  massage,  and  powder  and  cosmetics,  to  see 
real  youth,  not  of  the  body  but  of  the  soul  also — the  eyes,  the 
smile,  the  voice,  the  movements — all  young.  Why  try  to  imi- 
tate that  miracle?  Who  could?  Who  ever  had?" 

He  went  on  shaking  hands,  bowing,  smiling,  laughing,  jesting, 
making  believe  himself,  but  all  the  while  the  miracle  of  the 
youth  and  beauty  of  Suzanne  Dale  was  running  in  his  mind. 

"What  are  you  thinking  about,  Eugene?"  asked  Angela,  com- 
ing to  the  window  where  he  had  drawn  a  rocking-chair  and  was 
sitting  gazing  out  on  the  silver  and  lavender  and  gray  of  the 
river  surface  in  the  fading  light.  Some  belated  gulls  were  still 
flying  about.  Across  the  river  the  great  manufactory  was  send- 
ing off  a  spiral  of  black  smoke  from  one  of  its  tall  chimneys. 
Lamps  were  beginning  to  twinkle  in  its  hundred-windowed  wall. 


THE    "GENIUS"  507 

A  great  siren  cry  broke  from  its  whistle  as  six  o'clock  tolled 
from  a  neighboring  clock  tower.  It  was  still  late  February  and 
cold. 

"Oh,  I  was  thinking  of  the  beauty  of  this  scene,'*  he  said 
wearily. 

Angela  did  not  believe  it.  She  was  conscious  of  something, 
but  they  never  quarreled  about  what  he  was  thinking  nowadays. 
They  had  come  too  far  along  in  comfort  and  solidity.  What  was 
it,  though,  she  wondered,  that  he  was  thinking  about? 

Suzanne  Dale  had  no  particular  thought  of  him.  He  was 
nice — pleasant,  good-looking.  Mrs.  Witla  was  quite  nice  and 
young. 

"Ma-ma,"  she  said,  "did  you  look  out  of  the  window  at  Mr. 
Witla's?" 

"Yes,  my  dear!" 

"Wasn't  that  a  beautiful  view?" 

"Charming." 

"I  should  think  you  might  like  to  live  on  the  Drive  sometime, 
ma-ma." 

"We  may  sometime." 

Mrs.  Dale  fell  to  musing.  Certainly  Eugene  was  an  attrac- 
tive man — young,  brilliant,  able.  What  a  mistake  all  the  young 
men  made,  marrying  so  early.  Here  he  was  successful,  intro- 
duced to  society,  attractive,  the  world  really  before  him,  and  he 
was  married  to  someone  who,  though  a  charming  little  woman, 
was  not  up  to  his  possibilities. 

"Oh,  well,"  she  thought,  "so  goes  the  world.  Why  worry? 
Everyone  must  do  the  best  they  can." 

Then  she  thought  of  a  story  she  might  write  along  this  line 
and  get  Eugene  to  publish  it  in  one  of  his  magazines. 


CHAPTER  II 

WHILE  these  various  events  were  occurring  the  work  of  the 
United  Magazines  Corporation  had  proceeded  apace. 
By  the  end  of  the  first  year  after  Eugene's  arrival  it  had  cleared 
up  so  many  of  its  editorial  and  advertising  troubles  that  he  was 
no  longer  greatly  worried  about  them,  and  by  the  end  of  the 
second  year  it  was  well  on  the  way  toward  real  success.  Eugene 
had  become  so  much  of  a  figure  about  the  place  that  everyone  in 
the  great  building,  in  which  there  were  over  a  thousand  em- 
ployed, knew  him  at  sight.  The  attendants  were  most  courteous 
and  obsequious,  as  much  so  almost  as  they  were  to  Colfax  and 
White,  though  the  latter  with  the  improvement  of  the  general 
condition  of  the  company  had  become  more  dominating  and  im- 
posing than  ever.  White  with  his  large  salary  of  twenty-five 
thousand  a  year  and  his  title  of  vice-president  was  most  anxious 
that  Eugene  should  not  become  more  powerful  than  he  had  al- 
ready. It  irritated  him  greatly  to  see  the  airs  Eugene  gave  him- 
self, for  the  latter  had  little  real  tact,  and  instead  of  dissembling 
his  importance  before  his  superiors  was  inclined  to  flaunt  it.  He 
was  forever  retailing  to  Colfax  some  new  achievement  in  the 
advertising,  circulation,  and  editorial  fields,  and  that  in  White's 
presence,  for  he  did  not  take  the  latter  very  seriously,  telling  of 
a  new  author  of  importance  captured  for  the  book  department; 
a  new  manuscript  feature  secured  for  one  or  another  of  the 
magazines,  a  new  circulation  scheme  or  connection  devised,  or  a 
new  advertising  contract  of  great  money  value  manipulated. 
His  presence  in  Colfax's  office  was  almost  invariably  a  signal  for 
congratulation  or  interest,  for  he  was  driving  things  hard  and 
Colfax  knew  it.  White  came  to  hate  the  sight  of  him. 

"Well,  what's  the  latest  great  thing  you've  done  ?"  Colfax  said 
once  to  Eugene  jovially  in  White's  presence,  for  he  knew  that 
Eugene  was  as  fond  of  praise  as  a  child  and  so  could  be  bantered 
with  impunity.  White  concealed  a  desire  to  sneer  behind  a 
deceptive  smile. 

"No  latest  great  thing,  only  Hayes  has  turned  that  Hammond 
Packing  Company  trick.  That  means  eighteen  thousand  dollars' 
worth  more  of  new  business  for  next  year.  That'll  help  a  little, 
won't  it?" 

"Hayes!  Hayes!  I'll  be  switched  if  I  don't  think  he  comes 
pretty  near  being  a  better  advertising  man  than  you  are,  Witla. 

508 


THE    "GENIUS'  509 

You  picked  him,  I'll  have  to  admit  that,  but  he  certainly  knows 
all  about  the  game.  If  anything  ever  happened  to  you,  I  think 
I'd  like  to  keep  him  right  there."  White  pretended  not  to  hear 
this,  but  it  pleased  him.  Hayes  should  be  aided  as  much  as 
possible  by  him. 

Eugene's  face  fell,  for  this  sudden  twisting  of  the  thread  of 
interest  from  his  to  his  assistant's  achievements  damped  his 
enthusiasm.  It  wasn't  pleasant  to  have  his  inspirational  leader- 
ship questioned  or  made  secondary  to  the  work  of  those  whom  he 
was  managing.  He  had  brought  all  these  men  here  and  keyed 
the  situation  up.  Was  Coif  ax  going  to  turn  on  him  ?  "Oh,  very 
well,"  he  said  sweetly. 

"Don't  look  so  hurt,"  returned  Colfax  easily.  "I  know  wThat 
you're  thinking.  I'm  not  going  to  turn  on  you.  You  hired  this 
man.  I'm  simply  telling  you  that  if  anything  should  happen  to 
you  I'd  like  to  keep  him  right  where  he  is." 

Eugene  thought  this  remark  over  seriously.  It  was  tanta- 
mount to  serving  notice  on  him  that  he  could  not  discharge 
Hayes.  Colfax  did  not  actually  so  mean  it  at  the  moment, 
though  it  was  the  seed  of  such  a  thought.  He  simply  left  the 
situation  open  for  consideration,  and  Eugene  went  away  thinking 
what  an  extremely  unfavorable  twist  this  gave  to  everything.  If 
he  was  to  go  on  finding  good  men  and  bringing  them  in  here  but 
could  not  discharge  them,  and  if  then,  later,  they  became  offensive 
to  him,  where  would  he  be?  Why,  if  they  found  that  out,  as 
they  might  through  White,  they  could  turn  on  him  as  lions  on 
a  tamer  and  tear  him  to  pieces!  This  was  a  bad  and  unexpected 
twist  to  things,  and  he  did  not  like  it. 

On  the  other  hand,  while  it  had  never  occurred  to  Colfax 
before  in  this  particular  connection,  for  he  liked  Eugene,  it  fitted 
in  well  with  certain  warnings  and  suggestions  which  had  been 
issuing  from  White  who  was  malevolently  opposed  to  Eugene. 
His  success  in  reorganizing  the  place  on  the  intellectual  and 
artistic  sides  was  too  much.  Eugene's  work  was  giving  him  a 
dignity  and  a  security  which  was  entirely  disproportionate  to 
what  he  was  actually  doing  and  which  was  threatening  to  over- 
shadow and  put  in  the  limbo  of  indifference  that  of  every  other 
person  connected  with  the  business.  This  must  be  broken.  Col- 
fax, for  the  time  being,  was  so  wrapped  up  in  what  he  considered 
Eugene's  shining  intellectual  and  commercial  qualities  that  he 
was  beginning  to  ignore  White.  The  latter  did  not  propose  that 
any  such  condition  should  continue.  It  was  no  doubt  a  rare 
thing  to  find  a  man  who  could  pick  good  men  and  make  the 
place  successful,  but  what  of  himself?  Colfax  was  naturally 


510  THE   "GENIUS' 

very  jealous,  he  knew,  and  suspicious.  He  did  not  want  to  be 
overshadowed  in  any  way  by  any  of  his  employees.  He  did  not 
feel  that  he  was,  so  far.  But  now  White  thought  it  would  be  a 
fine  thing  to  stir  him  up  on  this  score  if  he  could — to  arouse  his 
jealousy.  He  knew  that  Coif  ax  did  not  care  so  much  about  the 
publishing  world,  though  now  that  he  was  in  it,  and  was  seeing 
that  it  could  be  made  profitable,  he  was  rather  gratified  by  the 
situation.  His  wife  liked  it,  for  people  were  always  talking  to 
her  about  the  United  Magazines  Corporation,  its  periodicals,  its 
books,  its  art  products  and  that  was  flattering.  While  it  might 
not  be  as  profitable  as  soap  and  woolens  and  railway  stocks  with 
which  her  husband  was  identified,  it  was  somewhat  more  distin- 
guished. She  wanted  him  to  keep  it  directly  under  his  thumb  and 
to  shine  by  its  reflected  light. 

In  looking  about  for  a  club  wherewith  to  strike  Eugene,  White 
discovered  this.  He  sounded  Colfax  on  various  occasions  by 
innuendo,  and  noted  his  sniffing  nostrils.  If  he  could  first  reach 
Eugene's  advertising,  circulation  and  editorial  men  and  persuade 
them  to  look  to  him  instead  of  to  Eugene,  he  might  later  reach 
and  control  Eugene  through  Colfax.  He  might  humble  Eugene 
by  curbing  his  power,  making  him  see  that  he,  White,  was  still 
the  power  behind  the  throne. 

"What  do  you  think  of  this  fellow  Witla?"  Colfax  would 
ask  White  from  time  to  time,  and  when  these  occasions  offered  he 
was  not  slow  to  drive  in  a  wedge. 

"He's  an  able  fellow,"  he  said  once,  apparently  most  open- 
mindedly.  "It's  plain  that  he's  doing  pretty  well  with  those  de- 
partments, but  I  think  you  want  to  look  out  for  his  vanity.  He's 
just  the  least  bit  in  danger  of  getting  a  swelled  head.  You  want 
to  remember  that  he's  still  pretty  young  for  the  job  he  holds 
(White  was  eight  years  older).  These  literary  and  artistic 
people  are  all  alike.  The  one  objection  that  I  have  to  them  is 
that  they  never  seem  to  have  any  real  practical  judgment.  They 
make  splendid  second  men  when  well  governed,  and  you  can  do 
almost  anything  with  them,  if  you  know  how  to  handle  them, 
but  you  have  to  govern  them.  This  fellow,  as  I  see  him,  is  just 
the  man  you  want.  He's  picking  some  good  people  and  he's 
getting  some  good  results,  but  unless  you  watch  him  he's  apt  to 
throw  them  all  out  of  here  sometime  or  go  away  and  take  them 
all  with  him.  I  shouldn't  let  him  do  that  if  I  were  you.  I 
should  let  him  get  just  the  men  you  think  are  right,  and  then  I 
should  insist  that  he  keep  them.  Of  course,  a  man  has  got  to 
have  authority  in  his  own  department,  but  it  can  be  carried  too 
far.  You're  treating  him  pretty  liberally,  you  know." 


THE   «  'GENIUS'3  511 

This  sounded  very  sincere  and  logical  to  Colfax,  who  admired 
White  for  it,  for  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  he  liked  Eugene  greatly 
and  went  about  with  him  a  great  deal,  he  did  not  exactly  trust 
him.  The  man  was  in  a  way  too  brilliant,  he  thought.  He  was 
a  little  too  airy  and  light  on  his  feet. 

Under  pretext  of  helping  his  work  and  directing  his  policy 
without  actually  interfering  so  that  it  might  eventually  prove  a 
failure,  White  was  constantly  making  suggestions.  He  made 
suggestions  which  he  told  Colfax  Eugene  ought  to  try  in  the 
circulation  department.  He  made  suggestions  which  he  thought 
he  might  find  advisable  to  try  in  the  advertising  department.  He 
had  suggestions,  gathered  from  Heaven  knows  where,  for  the 
magazines  and  books,  and  these  he  invariably  sent  through  Col- 
fax, taking  good  care,  however,  that  the  various  department  heads 
knew  from  what  source  they  had  originally  emanated.  It  was 
his  plan  to  speak  to  Hayes  or  Gillmore,  who  was  in  charge  of 
circulation,  or  one  of  the  editors  about  some  thought  that  was  in 
his  mind  and  then  have  that  same  thought  come  as  an  order  via 
Eugene.  The  latter  was  so  anxious  to  make  good,  so  good- 
natured  in  his  interpretation  of  suggestions,  that  it  did  not  occur 
to  him,  for  a  long  time,  that  he  was  being  played.  The  men 
under  him,  however,  realized  that  something  was  happening,  for 
White  was  hand  and  glove  with  Colfax,  and  the  two  were  not 
always  in  accord  with  Eugene.  He  was  not  quite  as  powerful 
as  White,  was  the  first  impression,  and  later  the  idea  got  about 
that  Eugene  and  White  did  not  agree  temperamentally  and  that 
White  was  the  stronger  and  would  win. 

It  is  not  possible  to  go  into  the  long,  slow  multitudinous  inci- 
dents and  details  which  go  to  make  up  office  politics,  but  anyone 
who  has  ever  worked  in  a  large  or  small  organization  anywhere 
will  understand.  Eugene  was  not  a  politician.  He  knew  nothing 
of  the  delicate  art  of  misrepresentation  as  it  was  practised  by 
White  and  those  who  were  of  his  peculiarly  subtle  mental  ten- 
dencies. White  did  not  like  Eugene,  and  he  proposed  to  have  his 
power  curbed.  Some  of  Eugene's  editors,  after  a  time,  began  to 
find  it  difficult  to  get  things  as  they  wanted  them  from  the  print- 
ing department,  and,  when  they  complained,  it  was  explained  that 
they  were  of  a  disorderly  and  quarrelsome  disposition.  Some  of 
his  advertising  men  made  mistakes  in  statement  or  presentation, 
and  curiously  these  errors  almost  invariably  came  to  light.  Eu- 
gene found  that  his  strong  men  were  most  quickly  relieved  of 
their  difficulties  if  they  approached  White,  but  if  they  came  to 
him  it  was  not  quite  so  easy.  Instead  of  ignoring  these  petty 
annoyances  and  going  his  way  about  the  big  things,  he  stopped 


5ia  THE    (!'  GENIUS11 

occasionally  to  fight  these  petty  battles  and  complaints,  and  these 
simply  put  him  in  the  light  of  one  who  was  not  able  to  maintain 
profound  peace  and  order  in  his  domain.  White  was  always 
bland,  helpful,  ready  with  a  suave  explanation. 

"It's  just  possible  that  he  may  not  know  how  to  handle  these 
fellows,  after  all,"  he  said  to  Colfax,  and  then  if  anyone  was 
discharged  it  was  a  sign  of  an  unstable  policy. 

Colfax  cautioned  Eugene  occasionally  in  accordance  with 
White's  suggestions,  but  Eugene  was  now  so  well  aware  of  what 
was  going  on  that  he  could  see  where  they  came  from.  He 
thought  once  of  accusing  White  openly  in  front  of  Colfax,  but 
he  knew  that  this  would  not  be  of  any  advantage  for  he  had  no 
real  evidence  to  go  on.  All  White's  protestations  to  Colfax  were 
to  the  effect  that  he  was  trying  to  help  him.  So  the  battle  lay. 

In  the  meantime,  Eugene,  because  of  this  or  the  thought  rather 
that  he  might  not  always  remain  as  powerful  as  he  was,  having 
no  stock  in  the  concern  and  not  being  able  to  buy  any,  had  been 
interesting  himself  in  a  proposition  which  had  since  been  brought 
to  him  by  Mr.  Kenyon  C.  Winfield,  who,  since  that  memorable 
conversation  at  the  home  of  the  Willebrands  on  Long  Island, 
had  not  forgotten  him.  Winfield  had  thought  of  him  for  a  long 
time  in  connection  with  a  plan  he  had  of  establishing  on  the 
South  Shore  of  Long  Island,  some  thirty-five  miles  from  New 
York,  a  magnificent  seaside  resort  which  should  outrival  Palm 
Beach  and  the  better  places  of  Atlantic  City,  and  give  to  New 
York,  close  at  hand,  such  a  dream  of  beauty  and  luxury  as  would 
turn  the  vast  tide  of  luxury-loving  idlers  and  successful  money 
grubbers  from  the  former  resorts  to  this.  Considerable  thought 
had  been  given  by  him  as  to  just  what  its  principal  characteristics 
should  be,  but  he  had  not  worked  it  out  to  suit  himself  exactly, 
and  he  thought  Eugene  might  be  interested  from  the  outlining 
point  of  view. 

Unfortunately,  on  the  face  of  it,  this  was  just  the  sort  of 
scheme  which  made  an  appeal  to  Eugene  from  all  points  of  view, 
in  spite  of  the  fact  that  he  already  had  his  hands  as  full  as  they 
could  be.  Nothing  interested  him  quite  so  much  as  beauty  and 
luxury  in  some  artistic  combination.  A  summer  resort  of  really 
imposing  proportions,  with  hotels,  casinos,  pagodas,  resident  sec- 
tions, club  houses,  a  wide  board  or  stone  walk  along  the  ocean, 
and  possibly  a  gambling  center  which  should  outrival  Monte 
Carlo,  had  long  since  occurred  to  him  as  something  which  might 
well  spring  up  near  New  York.  He  and  Angela  had  visited 
Palm  Beach,  Old  Point  Comfort,  Virginia  Hot  Springs,  New- 
port, Shelter  Island,  Atlantic  City,  and  Tuxedo,  and  his  impres- 


THE    "GENIUS"  513 

sions  of  what  constituted  luxury  and  beauty  had  long  since  wid- 
ened to  magnificent  proportions.  He  liked  the  interiors  of  the 
Chamberlain  at  Old  Point  Comfort,  and  the  Royal  Ponciana  at 
Palm  Beach.  He  had  studied  with  artistic  curiosity  the  develop- 
ment of  the  hotel  features  at  Atlantic  City  and  elsewhere.  It 
had  occurred  to  him  that  a  restricted  territory  might  be  had  out 
on  the  Atlantic  Ocean  near  Gravesend  Bay  possibly,  which  would 
include  among  other  things  islands,  canals  or  inland  waterways, 
a  mighty  sea  beach,  two  or  three  great  hotels,  a  casino  for  danc- 
ing, dining,  gambling,  a  great  stone  or  concrete  walk  to  be  laid 
out  on  a  new  plan  parallel  with  the  ocean,  and  at  the  back  of  all 
these  things  and  between  the  islands  and  the  ocean  a  magnificent 
seaside  city  where  the  lots  should  sell  at  so  expensive  a  rate  that 
only  the  well-to-do  could  afford  to  live  there.  His  thought  was 
of  something  so  fine  that  it  would  attract  all  the  prominent 
pleasure-lovers  he  had  recently  met.  If  they  could  be  made  to 
understand  that  such  a  place  existed ;  that  it  was  beautiful, 
showy,  exclusive  in  a  money  sense,  they  would  come  there  by  the 
thousands. 

"Nothing  is  so  profitable  as  a  luxury,  if  the  luxury-loving  pub- 
lic want  it,"  Colfax  had  once  said  to  him;  and  he  believed  it. 
He  judged  this  truth  by  the  things  he  had  recently  seen.  People 
literally  spent  millions  to  make  themselves  comfortable.  He 
had  seen  gardens,  lawns,  walks,  pavilions,  pergolas,  laid  out  at 
an  expense  of  thousands  and  hundreds  of  thousands  of  dollars, 
where  few  would  ever  see  them.  In  St.  Louis  he  had  seen  a 
mausoleum  built  upon  the  lines  of  the  Taj  Mahal,  the  lawn 
about  which  was  undermined  by  a  steam-heating  plant  in  order 
that  the  flowers  and  shrubs  displayed  there  might  bloom  all  win- 
ter long.  It  had  never  occurred  to  him  that  the  day  would  come 
when  he  would  have  anything  to  do  \vith  such  a  dream  as  this 
or  its  ultimate  fruition,  but  his  was  the  kind  of  mind  that  loved 
to  dwell  on  things  of  the  sort. 

The  proposition  which  Winfield  now  genially  laid  before  him 
one  day  was  simple  enough.  Winfield  had  heard  that  Eugene 
was  making  a  good  deal  of  money,  that  his  salary  was  twenty- 
five  thousand  a  year,  if  not  more,  that  he  had  houses  and  lots 
and  some  nice  stock  investments,  and  it  occurred  to  him,  as  it 
would  have  to  anyone,  that  Eugene  might  be  able  to  shoulder  a 
comfortable  investment  in  some  kind  of  land  speculation,  par- 
ticularly if  he  could  see  his  way  to  make  much  more  money  in 
the  long  run.  The  idea  Winfield  had  was  as  follows:  He  was 
going  to  organize  a  corporation  to  be  known  as  The  Sea  Island 
Development  Company,  to  be  capitalized  at  ten  million  dollars, 


5H  THE    "GENIUS" 

some  two  or  three  hundred  thousand  dollars  of  which  was  to  be 
laid  down  or  paid  into  the  treasury  at  the  start.  Against  this 
latter  sum  stock  to  the  value  of  one  million  dollars,  or  five 
shares  of  one  hundred  dollars  par  value  each,  was  to  be  issued. 
That  is,  whoever  laid  down  one  hundred  dollars  in  cash  was  to 
receive  in  return  three  shares  of  common  stock  and  two  of  pre- 
ferred, valued  at  one  hundred  dollars  each,  bearing  eight  per 
cent,  interest.  This  ratio  was  to  be  continued  until  $200,000  in 
cash  was  in  the  treasury.  Then  those  who  came  afterward  and 
were  willing  to  buy  wrere  only  to  receive  two  shares  of  common 
and  one  of  preferred,  until  one  million  in  cash  was  in  the  treas- 
ury. After  that  the  stock  was  to  be  sold  at  its  face  value,  or 
more,  as  the  situation  might  dictate. 

The  original  sum  of  two  hundred  thousands  dollars  was  to  go 
to  purchase  for  the  corporation  an  undeveloped  tract  of  land, 
half  swamp,  half  island,  and  facing  the  Atlantic  Ocean  beyond 
Gravesend  Bay,  now  owned  by  Winfield  himself,  where  a  beauti- 
ful rolling  beach  of  white  sand  stretched  some  three  miles  in  length 
and  without  flaw  or  interruption.  This  would  clear  Winfield  of 
a  piece  of  property  which  was  worth,  say  $60,000,  but  at  pres- 
ent unsaleable,  and  give  him  magnificent  holdings  in  the  new 
company  besides.  He  proposed  to  take  a  mortgage  on  this  and 
all  improvements  the  company  might  make  in  order  to  protect 
himself.  At  the  west  end  of  this  tract — inland  from  the  sea — 
was  a  beautiful  bay,  which,  though  shallow,  gave  access  to  a 
series  of  inlets  and  a  network  of  waterways,  embracing  nine 
small  islands.  These  waterways,  when  dredged,  would  be  amply 
deep  enough  for  yachts  and  small  craft  of  all  descriptions,  and 
the  first  important  thought  which  occurred  to  Winfield  was  that 
the  mud  and  sand  so  dredged  could  be  used  to  fill  in  the  low, 
marshy  levels  of  soil  between  them  and  the  sea  and  so  make  it  all 
into  high,  dry,  and  valuable  land.  The  next  thing  was  to  devise 
a  beautiful  scheme  of  improvement,  and  it  was  for  this  that  he 
wished  to  talk  to  Eugene. 


CHAPTER  III 

THE  matter  was  not  difficult  to  arrange.  Before  Winfield 
had  gone  ten  sentences,  Eugene  began  to  take  the  ideas  out 
of  his  mind. 

"I  know  something  of  that  property,"  he  said,  studying  a  little 
outline  map  which  Winfield  had  prepared.  "I've  been  out  there 
duck  shooting  with  Colfax  and  some  others.  It's  fine  property, 
there's  no  doubt  of  it.  How  much  do  they  want  for  it?" 

"Well,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  I  already  own  it,"  said  Winfield. 
"It  cost  me  sixty  thousand  dollars  five  years  ago  when  it  was  a 
vast,  inaccessible  swamp.  Nothing  has  been  done  to  it  since,  but 
I  will  turn  it  over  to  the  company  for  what  it  is  worth  now — 
two  hundred  thousand  dollars — and  take  a  mortgage  for  my 
protection.  Then  the  company  can  do  what  it  pleases  with  it; 
but  as  president,  of  course,  I  should  direct  the  line  of  develop- 
ment. If  you  want  to  make  a  fortune  and  have  fifty  thousand 
dollars  to  spare,  here  is  your  chance.  This  land  has  increased 
in  value  from  sixty  to  two  hundred  thousand  dollars  in  five 
years.  What  do  you  fancy  it  will  be  worth  in  ten  years  from 
now  the  way  New  York  is  growing?  It  has  pretty  near  four 
million  people  now.  In  twenty-five  years  it  is  safe  to  say  that 
there  will  be  fourteen  or  fifteen  millions  scattered  over  this  ter- 
ritory which  lies  within  twenty-five  miles.  Of  course,  this  is 
thirty-two  miles  away  on  a  direct  line,  but  what  of  it?  The 
Long  Island  Railroad  will  be  glad  to  put  a  spur  in  there  which 
would  bring  this  territory  within  one  hour  of  the  city.  Think 
of  it — one  of  the  finest  beaches  on  the  Atlantic  Ocean  within  one 
hour  of  New  York!  I  expect  to  interest  Mr.  Wiltsle,  the 
President  of  the  Long  Island,  very  heavily  in  this  property.  I 
come  to  you  now  because  I  think  your  advertising  and  artistic 
advice  are  worth  something.  You  can  take  it  or  leave  it,  but 
before  you  do  anything,  I  want  you  to  come  out  and  look  over 
the  property  with  me." 

All  told,  in  stocks,  land,  free  money  in  the  banks,  and  what 
he  might  save  in  a  year  or  two,  Eugene  had  about  fifty  thousand 
dollars  of  good  hard  cash  which  he  could  lay  his  hands  on  at  a 
pinch.  He  was  well  satisfied  that  Winfield  was  putting  before 
him  one  of  those  golden  opportunities  which,  prudently  man- 
aged, would  make  him  a  rich  man.  Nevertheless,  his  fifty  thou- 
sand was  fifty  thousand,  and  he  had  it.  Never  again,  however, 


516  THE   "GENIUS" 

once  this  other  thing  was  under  way,  if  it  were  true,  would  he 
have  to  worry  about  a  position,  or  whether  he  would  be  able  to 
maintain  his  present  place  in  society.  One  could  not  possibly  say 
what  an  investment  like  this  might  not  lead  to.  Winfield,  so  he 
told  Eugene,  expected  eventually  to  clear  six  or  eight  million 
dollars  himself.  He  was  going  to  take  stock  in  some  of  the  ho- 
tels, casinos,  and  various  other  enterprises,  which  would  be 
organized.  He  could  clearly  see  how,  later,  once  this  land  was 
properly  drained  and  laid  out,  it  would  be  worth  from  three  to 
fifteen  thousand  dollars  per  lot  of  one  hundred  by  one  hundred 
feet — the  smallest  portions  to  be  sold.  There  were  islands  which 
for  clubs  or  estates  should  bring  splendid  returns.  Think  of  the 
leases  to  yacht  and  boat  clubs  alone!  The  company  would  own 
all  the  land. 

"I  would  develop  this  myself  if  I  had  the  capital,"  said  Win- 
field,  "but  I  want  to  see  it  done  on  a  gigantic  scale,  and  I  haven't 
the  means.  I  want  something  here  which  will  be  a  monument  to 
me  and  to  all  connected  with  it.  I  am  willing  to  take  my 
chances  pro  rata  with  those  who  now  enter,  and  to  prove  my  good 
faith  I  am  going  to  buy  as  many  shares  as  I  possibly  can  on  the 
five-for-one  basis.  You  or  anyone  else  can  do  the  same  thing. 
What  do  you  think?" 

"It's  a  great  idea,"  said  Eugene.  "It  seems  as  though  a  dream 
which  had  been  floating  about  in  the  back  of  my  head  for  years 
had  suddenly  come  to  life.  I  can  scarcely  believe  that  it  is  true, 
and  yet  I  know  that  it  is,  and  that  you  will  get  away  with  it 
just  as  you  are  outlining  it  here.  You  want  to  be  very  careful 
how  you  lay  out  this  property,  though.  You  have  the  chance  of 
a  lifetime.  For  goodness'  sake,  don't  make  any  mistakes!  Let's 
have  one  resort  that  will  be  truly,  beautifully  right." 

"That's  precisely  the  way  I  feel  about  it,"  answered  Winfield, 
"and  that's  why  I  am  talking  to  you.  I  want  you  to  come  in 
on  this,  for  I  think  your  imagination  will  be  worth  something. 
You  can  help  me  lay  this  thing  out  right  and  advertise  it  right." 

They  talked  on  about  one  detail  and  another  until  finally  Eu- 
gene, in  spite  of  all  his  caution,  saw  his  dreams  maturing  in  this 
particular  proposition.  Fifty  thousand  dollars  invested  here 
would  give  him  two  thousand  five  hundred  shares — one  thousand 
preferred,  and  fifteen  hundred  common — whose  face  value,  guar- 
anteed by  this  magnificent  piece  of  property,  would  be  $250,000. 
Think  of  it,  $250,000 — a  quarter  of  a  million — and  that  subject 
to  a  natural  increase  which  might  readily  carry  him  into  the 
millionaire  class!  His  own  brains  would  be  of  some  value  here, 
for  Winfield  was  anxious  to  have  him  lay  this  out,  and  this 


THE    "GENIUS"  517 

would  bring  him  in  touch  with  not  only  one  of  the  best  real 
estate  men  in  the  city,  but  would  bring  him  into  contact  with  a 
whole  host  of  financiers  in  business,  people  who  would  certainly 
become  interested  in  this  venture.  Winfield  talked  easily  of 
architects,  contractors,  railroad  men,  presidents  of  construction 
companies,  all  of  whom  would  take  stock  for  the  business  oppor- 
tunities it  would  bring  to  them  later  and  also  of  the  many  strings 
to  be  pulled  which  later  would  bring  great  gains  to  the  company 
and  save  it  from  expenditures  which  would  otherwise  mean  mil- 
lions in  outlay.  Thus  this  proposed  extension  by  the  Long  Island 
which  would  cost  that  railroad  two  hundred  thousand  dollars 
would  cost  the  Sea  Island  Company  nothing  and  would  bring 
thousands  of  lovers  of  beauty  there  the  moment  conveniences 
were  established  to  receive  them.  This  was  true  of  hotels  to  be 
built.  Each  would  bring  business  for  everything  else.  The  com- 
pany would  lease  the  ground.  The  great  hotel  men  would  do 
their  own  building  according  to  restrictions  and  plans  laid  down 
by  the  Sea  Island  Company.  The  only  real  expenditure  would 
be  for  streets,  sewers,  lights,  water,  walks,  trees,  and  the  great 
one  hundred  foot  wide  boardwalk  with  concrete  ornaments  which 
would  be  the  finest  sea  stroll  in  the  world.  But  these  could  be 
undertaken  by  degrees. 

Eugene  saw  it  all.  It  was  a  vision  of  empire.  "I  don't  know 
about  this,"  he  said  cautiously.  "It's  a  great  thing,  but  I  may 
not  have  the  means  to  dip  into  it.  I  want  to  think  it  over. 
Meanwhile,  I'll  be  glad  to  go  out  there  and  look  over  the  ground 
with  you." 

Winfield  could  see  that  he  had  Eugene  fascinated.  It  would 
be  an  easy  matter  to  land  him  once  he  had  his  plans  perfected. 
Eugene  would  be  the  type  of  man  who  would  build  a  house  and 
come  and  live  there  in  the  summer.  He  would  interest  many 
people  whom  he  knew.  He  went  away  feeling  that  he  had  made 
a  good  start,  and  he  was  not  mistaken. 

Eugene  talked  the  matter  over  with  Angela — his  one  recourse 
in  these  matters — and  as  usual  she  was  doubtful,  but  not  entirely 
opposed.  Angela  had  considerable  caution,  but  no  great  busi- 
ness vision.  She  could  not  really  tell  him  what  he  ought  to  do. 
Thus  far  his  judgment,  or  rather  his  moves,  had  been  obviously 
successful.  He  had  been  going  up  apparently  because  he  was 
valuable  as  an  assistant,  not  because  he  was  a  born  leader. 

" You'll  have  to  judge  for  yourself,  Eugene,"  Angela  finally 
said.  "I  don't  know.  It  looks  fine.  You  certainly  don't  want 
to  work  for  Mr.  Colfax  all  your  life,  and  if,  as  you  say,  they 
are  beginning  to  plot  against  you,  you  had  better  prepare  to  get 


518  THE    '  GENIUS'' 

out  sometime.  We  have  enough  now,  really,  to  live  on,  if  you 
want  to  return  to  your  art." 

Eugene  smiled.  "My  art.  My  poor  old  art!  A  lot  I've  done 
to  develop  my  art." 

"I  don't  think  it  needs  developing.  You  have  it.  I'm  sorry 
sometimes  I  ever  let  you  leave  it.  We  have  lived  better,  but 
your  work  hasn't  counted  for  as  much.  What  good  has  it  done 
you  outside  the  money  to  be  a  successful  publisher?  You  were 
as  famous  as  you  are  now  before  you  ever  started  in  on  this  line, 
and  more  so.  More  people  know  you  even  now  as  Eugene 
Witla,  the  artist,  than  as  Eugene  Witla,  the  magazine  man." 

Eugene  knew  this  to  be  so.  His  art  achievements  had  never 
forsaken  him.  They  had  grown  in  fame  always.  Pictures  that 
he  had  sold  for  two  hundred  and  four  hundred  had  gone  up  to 
as  high  as  three  and  four  thousand  in  value,  and  they  wrere  still 
rising.  He  was  occasionally  approached  by  an  art  dealer  to 
know  if  he  never  intended  to  paint  any  more.  In  social  circles 
it  was  a  constant  cry  among  the  elect,  "Why  don't  you  paint 
any  longer?"  "What  a  shame  you  ever  left  the  art  world!" 
"Those  pictures  of  yours,  I  can  never  forget  them." 

"My  dear  lady,"  Eugene  once  said  solemnly,  "I  can't  live  by 
painting  pictures  as  I  am  living  by  directing  magazines.  Art  is 
very  lovely.  I  am  satisfied  to  believe  that  I  am  a  great  painter. 
Nevertheless,  I  made  little  out  of  it,  and  since  then  I  have 
learned  to  live.  It's  sad,  but  it's  true.  If  I  could  see  my  way 
to  live  in  half  the  comfort  I  am  living  in  now  and  not  run  the 
risk  of  plodding  the  streets  with  a  picture  under  my  arm,  I 
would  gladly  return  to  art.  The  trouble  is  the  world  is  always 
so  delightfully  ready  to  see  the  other  fellow  make  the  sacrifice 
for  art  or  literature's  sake.  Selah!  I  won't  do  it.  So  there!" 

"It's  a  pity!  It's  a  pity!"  said  this  observer,  but  Eugene  was 
not  vastly  distressed.  Similarly  Mrs.  Dale  had  reproached  him, 
for  she  had  seen  and  heard  of  his  work. 

"Some  time.     Some  time,"  he  said  grandly;  "wait." 

Now  at  length  this  land  proposition  seemed  to  clear  the  way 
for  everything.  If  Eugene  embarked  upon  it,  he  might  gradu- 
ally come  to  the  point  at  which  he  could  take  some  official  posi- 
tion in  connection  with  it.  Anyhow,  think  of  a  rising  income 
from  $250,000!  Think  of  the  independence,  the  freedom! 
Surely  then  he  could  paint  or  travel,  or  do  as  he  pleased. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  after  two  automobile  rides  to  the  nearest 
available  position  on  the  site  of  the  future  resort  and  a  careful 
study  of  the  islands  and  the  beach,  Eugene  devised  a  scheme 
which  included  four  hotels  of  varying  sizes,  one  dining  and 


THE    "GENIUS"  519 

dancing  casino,  one  gambling  resort  after  the  pattern  of  Monte 
Carlo,  a  summer  theatre,  a  music  pavilion,  three  lovely  piers, 
motor  and  yacht  club  houses,  a  park  with  radiating  streets,  and 
other  streets  arranged  in  concentric  rings  to  cross  them.  There 
was  a  grand  plaza  about  which  the  four  hotels  wrere  ranged,  a 
noble  promenade,  three  miles  in  length,  to  begin  with,  a  hand- 
some railway  station,  plots  for  five  thousand  summer  homes, 
ranging  from  five  to  fifteen  thousand  in  price.  There  were 
islands  for  residences,  islands  for  clubs,  islands  for  parks.  One 
of  the  hotels  sat  close  to  an  inlet  over  which  a  dining  veranda 
was  to  be  built — stairs  were  to  be  laid  down  to  the  water  so 
that  one  could  step  into  gondolas  or  launches  and  be  carried 
quickly  to  one  of  the  music  pavilions  on  one  of  the  islands. 
Everything  that  money  wanted  was  to  be  eventually  available 
here,  and  all  was  to  be  gone  about  slowly  but  beautifully,  so 
that  each  step  would  only  make  more  sure  each  additional  step. 

Eugene  did  not  enter  on  this  grand  scheme  until  ten  men, 
himself  included,  had  pledged  themselves  to  take  stock  up  to 
$50,000  each.  Included  in  these  were  Mr.  Wiltsie,  President 
of  the  Long  Island;  Mr.  Kenyon  C.  Winfield,  and  Milton 
Willebrand,  the  very  wealthy  society  man  at  whose  home  he  had 
originally  met  Winfield.  The  Sea  Island  Company  was  then 
incorporated,  and  on  a  series  of  dates  agreed  upon  between  them 
and  which  were  dependent  upon  a  certain  amount  of  work  being 
accomplished  by  each  date,  the  stock  was  issued  to  them  in  ten- 
thousand-dollar  lots  and  then  cash  taken  and  deposited  in  the 
treasury.  By  the  end  of  two  years  after  Eugene  had  first  been 
approached  by  Winfield  he  had  a  choice  collection  of  gold-colored 
certificates  in  the  Sea  Island  Realty  and  Construction  Company, 
which  was  building  the  now  widely  heralded  seaside  resort — 
"Blue  Sea" — which,  according  to  those  interested,  was  to  be  the 
most  perfect  resort  of  its  kind  in  the  world.  His  certificates 
stated  that  they  were  worth  $250,000,  and  potentially  they  were. 
Eugene  and  Angela  looking  at  them,  thinking  of  the  initiative 
and  foresight  of  Mr.  Kenyon  C.  Winfield  and  the  men  he  was 
associated  with,  felt  sure  that  some  day,  and  that  not  so  very 
far  distant,  they  would  yield  their  face  value  and  much  more. 


CHAPTER   IV 

IT  had  been  while  he  was  first  perfecting  his  undertaking  with 
Winfield  as  to  what  his  relationship  to  the  new  Sea  Island 
Construction  Company  was  to  be  that  Eugene  had  been  dwelling 
more  and  more  fondly  upon  the  impression  which  Suzanne  Dale 
had  originally  made  upon  him.  It  was  six  weeks  before  they  met 
again,  and  then  it  was  on  the  occasion  of  a  dance  that  Mrs.  Dale 
was  giving  in  honor  of  Suzanne  that  Eugene  and  Angela  were 
invited.  Mrs.  Dale  admired  Angela's  sterling  qualities  as  a 
wife,  and  while  there  might  be  temperamental  and  social  differ- 
ences, she  did  not  think  they  were  sufficient  to  warrant  any  dis- 
crimination between  them,  at  least  not  on  her  part.  Angela 
was  a  good  woman — not  a  social  figure  at  all — but  interesting  in 
her  way.  Mrs.  Dale  was  much  more  interested  in  Eugene,  be- 
cause in  the  first  place  they  were  very  much  alike  temperamen- 
tally, and  in  the  next  place  because  Eugene  was  a  successful  and 
brilliant  person.  She  liked  to  see  the  easy  manner  in  which  he 
took  life,  the  air  with  which  he  assumed  that  talent  should  nat- 
urally open  all  doors  to  him.  He  was  not  conscious  apparently 
of  any  inferiority  in  anything  but  rather  of  a  splendid  superior- 
ity. She  heard  it  from  so  many  that  he  was  rapidly  rising  in  his 
publishing  world  and  that  he  was  interested  in  many  things,  the 
latest  this  project  to  create  a  magnificent  summer  resort.  Win- 
field  was  a  personal  friend  of  hers.  He  had  never  attempted  to 
sell  her  any  property,  but  he  had  once  said  that  he  might  some 
day  take  her  Staten  Island  holdings  and  divide  them  up  into 
town  lots.  This  was  one  possibility  which  tended  to  make  her 
pleasant  to  him. 

The  evening  in  question  Eugene  and  Angela  went  down  to 
Daleview  in  their  automobile.  Eugene  always  admired  this 
district,  for  it  gave  him  a  sense  of  height  and  scope  which  was 
not  easily  attainable  elsewhere  about  New  York.  It  was  still 
late  winter  and  the  night  was  cold  but  clear.  The  great  house 
with  its  verandas  encased  in  glass  was  brightly  lit.  There  were 
a  number  of  people — men  and  women,  whom  Eugene  had  met  at 
various  places,  and  quite  a  number  of  young  people  whom  he  did 
not  know.  Angela  had  to  be  introduced  to  a  great  many,  and 
Eugene  felt  that  peculiar  sensation  which  he  so  often  experienced 
of  a  certain  incongruity  in  his  matrimonial  state.  Angela  was 

520 


THE  "GENIUS"  521 

nice,  but  to  him  she  was  not  like  these  other  women  who  carried 
themselves  with  such  an  air.  There  was  a  statuesqueness  and 
a  sufficiency  about  many  of  them,  to  say  nothing  of  their  superb 
beauty  and  sophistication  which  made  him  feel,  when  the  con- 
trast was  forced  upon  him  closely,  that  he  had  made  a  terrible 
mistake.  Why  had  he  been  so  silly  as  to  marry  ?  He  could  have 
told  Angela  frankly  that  he  would  not  at  the  time,  and  all  would 
have  been  well.  He  forgot  how  badly,  emotionally,  he  had  en- 
tangled himself.  But  scenes  like  these  made  him  dreadfully  un- 
happy. Why,  his  life  if  he  were  single  would  now  be  but  begin- 
ning! 

As  he  walked  round  tonight  he  was  glad  to  be  free  socially 
even  for  a  few  minutes.  He  was  glad  that  first  this  person  and 
that  took  the  trouble  to  talk  to  Angela.  It  relieved  him  of  the 
necessity  of  staying  near  her,  for  if  he  neglected  her  or  she  felt 
neglected  by  others  she  was  apt  to  reproach  him.  If  he  did  not 
show  her  attention,  she  would  complain  that  he  was  conspicuous 
in  his  indifference.  If  others  refused  to  talk  to  her,  it  was  his 
place.  He  should.  Eugene  objected  to  this  necessity  with  all 
his  soul,  but  he  did  not  see  what  he  was  to  do  about  it.  As  she 
often  said,  even  if  he  had  made  a  mistake  in  marrying  her,  it  was 
his  place  to  stick  by  her  now  that  he  had.  A  real  man  would. 

One  of  the  things  that  interested  him  was  the  number  of  beauti- 
ful young  women.  He  was  interested  to  see  how  full  and  com- 
plete mentally  and  physically  so  many  girls  appeared  to  be  at 
eighteen.  Why,  in  their  taste,  shrewdness,  completeness,  they 
were  fit  mates  for  a  man  of  almost  any  age  up  to  forty!  Some 
of  them  looked  so  wonderful  to  him — so  fresh  and  ruddy  with 
the  fires  of  ambition  and  desire  burning  briskly  in  their  veins. 
Beautiful  girls — real  flowers,  like  roses,  light  and  dark.  And  to 
think  the  love  period  was  all  over  for  him — completely  over! 

Suzanne  came  down  with  others  after  a  while  from  some  room 
upstairs,  and  once  more  Eugene  was  impressed  with  her  simple, 
natural,  frank,  good-natured  attitude.  Her  light  chestnut-col- 
ored hair  was  tied  with  a  wide  band  of  light  blue  ribbon  which 
matched  her  eyes  and  contrasted  well  with  her  complexion. 
Again,  her  dress  was  some  light  flimsy  thing,  the  color  of  peach 
blossoms,  girdled  with  ribbon  and  edged  with  flowers  like  a 
wreath.  Soft  white  sandals  held  her  feet. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Witla!"  she  said  gaily,  holding  out  her  smooth 
white  arm  on  a  level  with  her  eyes  and  dropping  her  hand  grace- 
fully. Her  red  lips  were  parted,  showing  even  white  teeth, 
arching  into  a  radiant  smile.  Her  eyes  were  quite  wide  as  he 
remembered,  with  an  innocent,  surprised  look  in  them,  which  was 


522  THE    "GENIUS" 

wholly  unconscious  with  her.  If  wet  roses  could  outrival  a 
maiden  in  all  her  freshness,  he  thought  he  would  like  to  see  it. 
Nothing  could  equal  the  beauty  of  a  young  woman  in  her  eight- 
eenth or  nineteenth  year. 

"Yes,  quite,  Mr.  Witla,"  he  said,  beaming.  "I  thought  you 
had  forgotten.  My,  we  look  charming  this  evening!  We  look 
like  roses  and  cut  flowers  and  stained-glass  windows  and  boxes 
of  jewels,  and,  and,  and " 

He  pretended  to  be  lost  for  more  words  and  looked  quizzi- 
cally up  at  the  ceiling. 

Suzanne  began  to  laugh.  Like  Eugene,  she  had  a  marked 
sense  of  the  comic  and  the  ridiculous.  She  was  not  in  the  least 
vain,  and  the  idea  of  being  like  roses  and  boxes  of  jewels  and 
stained-glass  windows  tickled  her  fancy. 

"Why,  that's  quite  a  collection  of  things  to  be,  isn't  it?"  she 
laughed,  her  lips  parted.  "I  wouldn't  mind  being  all  those 
things  if  I  could,  particularly  the  jewels.  Mama  won't  give  me 
any.  I  can't  even  get  a  brooch  for  my  throat." 

"Mama  is  real  mean,  apparently,"  said  Eugene  vigorously. 
"We'll  have  to  talk  to  mama,  but  she  knows,  you  know,  that 
you  don't  need  any  jewels,  see?  She  knows  that  you  have  some- 
thing which  is  just  as  good,  or  better.  But  we  won't  talk  about 
that,  will  we?" 

Suzanne  had  been  afraid  that  he  was  going  to  begin  compli- 
menting her,  but  seeing  how  easily  he  avoided  this  course  she 
liked  him  for  it.  She  was  a  little  overawed  by  his  dignity  and 
mental  capacity,  but  attracted  by  his  gaiety  and  lightness  of 
manner. 

"Do  you  know,  Mr.  Witla,"  she  said,  "I  believe  you  like  to 
tease  people." 

"Oh,  no!"  said  Eugene.  "Oh,  never,  never!  Nothing  like 
that.  How  could  I ?  Tease  people!  Far  be  it  from  me!  That's 
the  very  last  thing  I  ever  think  of  doing.  I  always  approach 
people  in  a  very  solemn  manner  and  tell  them  the  dark  sad 
truth.  It's  the  only  way.  They  need  it.  The  more  truth  I 
tell  the  better  I  feel.  And  then  they  like  me  so  much  better  for 
it." 

At  the  first  rush  of  his  quizzical  tirade  Suzanne's  eyes  opened 
quaintly,  inquiringly.  Then  she  began  to  smile,  and  in  a  mo- 
ment after  he  ceased  she  exclaimed:  "Oh,  ha!  ha!  Oh,  dear! 
Oh,  dear,  how  you  talk!"  A  ripple  of  laughter  spread  outward, 
and  Eugene  frowned  darkly. 

"How  dare  you  laugh?"  he  said.  "Don't  laugh  at  me.  It's 
against  the  rules  to  laugh,  anyhow.  Don't  you  remember  grow- 


THE    "GENIUS"  523 

ing  girls  should  never  laugh  ?  Solemnity  is  the  first  rule  of  beauty. 
Never  smile.  Keep  perfectly  solemn.  Look  wise.  Hence. 
Therefore.  If.  And " 

He  lifted  a  finger  solemnly,  and  Suzanne  stared.  He  had 
fixed  her  eye  with  his  and  was  admiring  her  pretty  chin  and  nose 
and  lips,  while  she  gazed  not  knowing  what  to  make  of  him. 
He  was  very  different ;  very  much  like  a  boy,  and  yet  very  much 
like  a  solemn,  dark  master  of  some  kind. 

"You  almost  frighten  me,"  she  said. 

"Now,  now,  listen!  It's  all  over.  Come  to.  I'm  just  a 
silly-billy.  Are  you  going  to  dance  with  me  this  evening  ?" 

"Why,  certainly,  if  you  want  me  to!  Oh,  that  reminds  me! 
We  have  cards.  Did  you  get  one?" 

"No." 

"Well,  they're  over  here,  I  think." 

She  led  the  way  toward  the  reception  hall,  and  Eugene  took 
from  the  footman  who  was  stationed  there  two  of  the  little 
books. 

"Let's  see,"  he  said,  writing,  "how  greedy  dare  I  be?" 

Suzanne  made  no  reply. 

"If  I  take  the  third  and  the  sixth  and  the  tenth — would  that 
be  too  many?" 

"No-o,"  said  Suzanne  doubtfully. 

He  wrote  in  hers  and  his  and  then  they  went  back  to  the 
drawing-room  where  so  many  were  now  moving.  "Will  you  be 
sure  and  save  me  these?" 

"Why,  certainly,"  she  replied.     "To  be  sure,  I  will!" 

"That's  nice  of  you.  And  now  here  comes  your  mother.  Re- 
member, you  mustn't  ever,  ever,  ever  laugh.  It's  against  the 
rules." 

Suzanne  went  away,  thinking.  She  was  pleased  at  the  gaiety 
of  this  man  who  seemed  so  light-hearted  and  self-sufficient.  He 
seemed  like  someone  who  took  her  as  a  little  girl,  so  different 
from  the  boys  she  knew  who  were  solemn  in  her  presence  and 
rather  love  sick.  He  was  the  kind  of  man  one  could  have  lots  of 
fun  with  without  subjecting  one's  self  to  undue  attention  and 
having  to  explain  to  her  mother.  Her  mother  liked  him.  But 
she  soon  forgot  him  in  the  chatter  of  other  people. 

Eugene  was  thinking  again,  though,  of  the  indefinable  some- 
thing in  the  spirit  of  this  girl  which  was  attracting  him  so  vig- 
orously. What  was  it?  He  had  seen  hundreds  of  girls  in  the 

last  few  years,  all  charming,  but  somehow  this  one She 

seemed  so  strong,  albeit  so  new  and  young.  There  was  a  poise 
there — a  substantial  quality  in  her  soul  which  could  laugh  at  life 


524  THE    "GENIUS" 

and  think  no  ill  of  it.  That  was  it  or  something  of  it,  for  of 
course  her  beauty  was  impressive,  but  a  courageous  optimism  was 
shining  out  through  her  eyes.  It  was  in  her  laugh,  her  mood. 
She  would  never  be  afraid. 

The  dance  began  after  ten,  and  Eugene  danced  with  first  one 
and  then  another — Angela,  Mrs.  Dale,  Mrs.  Stevens,  Miss 
Willy.  When  the  third  set  came  he  went  looking  for  Suzanne 
and  found  her  talking  to  another  young  girl  and  two  society 
men. 

"Mine,  you  know,"  he  said  smilingly. 

She  came  out  to  him  laughing,  stretching  her  arm  in  a  sinuous 
way,  quite  unconscious  of  the  charming  figure  she  made.  She  had 
a  way  of  throwing  back  her  head  which  revealed  her  neck  in 
beautiful  lines.  She  looked  into  Eugene's  eyes  simply  and  un- 
affectedly, returning  his  smile  with  one  of  her  own.  And  when 
they  began  to  dance  he  felt  as  though  he  had  never  really  danced 
before. 

What  was  it  the  poet  said  of  the  poetry  of  motion  ?  This  was 
it.  This  was  it.  This  girl  could  dance  wonderfully,  sweetly,  as 
a  fine  voice  sings.  She  seemed  to  move  like  the  air  with  the 
sound  of  the  two-step  coming  from  an  ambush  of  flowers,  and 
Eugene  yielded  himself  instinctively  to  the  charm — the  hypno- 
tism of  it.  He  danced  and  in  dancing  forgot  everything  except 
this  vision  leaning  upon  his  arm  and  the  sweetness  of  it  all. 
Nothing  could  equal  this  emotion,  he  said  to  himself.  It  was 
finer  than  anything  he  had  ever  experienced.  There  was  joy  in 
it,  pure  delight,  an  exquisite  sense  of  harmony;  and  even  while 
he  was  congratulating  himself  the  music  seemed  to  hurry  to  a 
finish.  Suzanne  had  looked  up  curiously  into  his  eyes. 

"You  like  dancing,  don't  you?"  she  said. 

"I  do,  but  I  don't  dance  well." 

"Oh,  I  think  so!"  she  replied.    "You  dance  so  easily." 

"It  is  because  of  you,"  he  said  simply.  "You  have  the  soul  of 
the  dance  in  you.  Most  people  dance  poorly,  like  myself." 

"I  don't  think  so,"  she  said,  hanging  on  to  his  arm  as  they 
walked  toward  a  seat.  "Oh,  there's  Kinroy!  He  has  the  next 
with  me." 

Eugene  looked  at  her  brother  almost  angrily.  Why  should 
circumstances  rob  him  of  her  company  in  this  way?  Kinroy 
looked  like  her — he  was  very  handsome  for  a  boy. 

"Well,  then,  I  have  to  give  you  up.    I  wish  there  were  more." 

He  left  her  only  to  wait  impatiently  for  the  sixth  and  the 
tenth.  He  knew  it  was  silly  to  be  interested  in  her  in  this  way, 
for  nothing  could  come  of  it.  She  was  a  young  girl  hedged 


THE    "GENIUS11  525 

about  by  all  the  conventions  and  safeguards  which  go  to  make 
for  the  perfect  upbringing  of  girlhood.  He  was  a  man  past  the 
period  of  her  interest,  watched  over  by  conventions  and  inter- 
ests also.  There  could  be  absolutely  nothing  between  them,  and 
yet  he  longed  for  her  just  the  same,  for  just  this  little  sip  of  the 
nectar  of  make-believe.  For  a  few  minutes  in  her  company,  mar- 
ried or  not,  so  many  years  older  or  not,  he  could  be  happy  in  her 
company,  teasing  her.  That  sense  of  dancing — that  sense  of 
perfect  harmony  with  beauty — when  had  he  ever  experienced 
that  before? 

The  night  went  by,  and  at  one  he  and  Angela  went  home. 
She  had  been  entertained  by  some  young  officer  in  the  army  sta- 
tioned at  Fort  Wadsworth  who  had  known  her  brother  David. 
That  had  made  the  evening  pleasant  for  her.  She  commented 
on  Mrs.  Dale  and  Suzanne,  what  a  charming  hostess  the  former 
was  and  how  pretty  and  gay  Suzanne  looked,  but  Eugene  mani- 
fested little  interest.  He  did  not  want  it  to  appear  that  he  had 
been  interested  in  Suzanne  above  any  of  the  others. 

"Yes,  she's  very  nice/'  he  said.  "Rather  pretty;  but  she's  like 
all  girls  at  that  age.  I  like  to  tease  them." 

Angela  wondered  whether  Eugene  had  really  changed  for 
good.  He  seemed  saner  in  all  his  talk  concerning  women.  Per- 
haps large  affairs  had  cured  him  completely,  though  she  could 
not  help  feeling  that  he  must  be  charmed  and  delighted  by  the 
beauty  of  some  of  the  women  whom  he  saw. 

Five  weeks  more  went  by  and  then  he  saw  Suzanne  one  day 
with  her  mother  on  Fifth  Avenue,  coming  out  of  an  antique 
shop.  Mrs.  Dale  explained  that  she  was  looking  after  the  re- 
pair of  a  rare  piece  of  furniture.  Eugene  and  Suzanne  were 
enabled  to  exchange  but  a  few  gay  words.  Four  weeks  later  he 
met  them  at  the  Brentwood  Hadleys,  in  Westchester.  Suzanne 
and  her  mother  were  enjoying  a  season  of  spring  riding.  Eugene 
was  there  for  only  a  Saturday  afternoon  and  Sunday.  On  this 
occasion  he  saw  her  coming  in  at  half-past  four  wearing  a  divided 
riding  skirt  and  looking  flushed  and  buoyant.  Her  lovely  hair 
was  flowing  lightly  about  her  temples. 

"Oh,  how  are  you?"  she  asked,  with  that  same  inconsequent 
air,  her  hand  held  out  to  him  at  a  high  angle.  "I  saw  you  last 
in  Fifth  Avenue,  didn't  I  ?  Mama  w^as  having  her  chair  fixed. 
Ha,  ha!  She's  such  a  slow  rider!  I've  left  her  miles  behind. 
Are  you  going  to  be  here  long?" 

"Just  today  and  tomorrow." 

He  looked  at  her,  pretending  gaiety  and  indifference. 

"Is  Mrs.  Witlahere?" 


526  THE    "GENIUS" 

"No,  she  couldn't  come.     A  relative  of  hers  is  in  the  city." 

"I  need  a  bath  terribly,"  said  the  desire  of  his  eyes,  and  passed 
on,  calling  back:  "I'll  see  you  again  before  dinner,  very  likely." 

Eugene  sighed. 

She  came  down  after  an  hour,  dressed  in  a  flowered  organdie, 
a  black  silk  band  about  her  throat,  a  low  collar  showing  her 
pretty  neck.  She  picked  up  a  magazine,  passing  a  wicker  table, 
and  came  down  the  veranda  where  Eugene  was  sitting  alone. 
Her  easy  manner  interested  him,  and  her  friendliness.  She  liked 
him  well  enough  to  be  perfectly  natural  with  him  and  to  seek 
him  out  where  he  was  sitting  once  she  saw  he  was  there. 

"Oh,  here  you  are!"  she  said,  and  sat  down,  taking  a  chair 
which  was  near  him. 

"Yes,  here  I  am,"  he  said,  and  began  teasing  her  as  usual,  for 
it  was  the  only  way  in  which  he  knew  how  to  approach  her. 
Suzanne  responded  vivaciously,  for  Eugene's  teasing  delighted 
her.  It  was  the  one  kind  of  humor  she  really  enjoyed. 

"You  know,  Mr.  Witla,"  she  said  to  him  once,  "I'm  not  going 
to  laugh  at  any  of  your  jokes  any  more.  They're  all  at  my 
expense." 

"That  makes  it  all  the  nicer,"  he  said.  "You  wouldn't  want 
me  to  make  jokes  at  my  expense,  would  you?  That  would  be  a 
terrible  joke." 

She  laughed  and  he  smiled.  They  looked  at  a  golden  sunset 
filtering  through  a  grove  of  tender  maples.  The  spring  was 
young  and  the  leaves  just  budding. 

"Isn't  it  lovely  tonight?"  he  asked. 

"Oh,  yes!"  she  exclaimed,  in  a  mellow,  meditative  voice,  the 
first  ring  of  deep  sincerity  in  it  that  he  ever  noticed  there. 

"Do  you  like  nature?"  he  asked. 

"Do  I?"  she  returned.  "I  can't  get  enough  of  the  woods 
these  days.  I  feel  so  queer  sometimes,  Mr.  Witla.  As  though  I 
were  not  really  alive  at  all,  you  know.  Just  a  sound,  or  a  color 
in  the  woods." 

He  stopped  and  looked  at  her.  The  simile  caught  him  quite 
as  any  notable  characteristic  in  anyone  would  have  caught  him. 
What  was  the  color  and  complexity  of  this  girl's  mind?  Was 
she  so  wise,  so  artistic  and  so  emotional  that  nature  appealed  to 
her  in  a  deep  way?  Was  this  wonderful  charm  that  he  felt  the 
shadow  or  radiance  of  something  finer  still  ? 

"So  that's  the  way  it  is,  is  it?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,"  she  said  quietly. 

He  sat  and  looked  at  her,  and  she  eyed  him  as  solemnly. 

"Why  do  you  look  at  me  so  ?"  she  asked. 


THE    "GENIUS"  527 

"Why  do  you  say  such  curious  things  ?"  he  answered. 

"What  did  I  say?" 

"I  don't  believe  you  really  know.  Well,  never  mind.  Let  us 
walk,  will  you?  Do  you  mind?  It's  still  an  hour  to  dinner. 
I'd  like  to  go  over  and  see  what's  beyond  those  trees." 

They  went  down  a  little  path  bordered  with  grass  and  under 
green  budding  twigs.  It  came  to  a  stile  finally  and  looked  out 
upon  a  stony  green  field  where  some  cows  were  pasturing. 

"Oh,  the  spring!  The  spring!"  exclaimed  Eugene,  and  Su- 
zanne answered:  "You  know,  Mr.  Witla,  I  think  we  must  be 
something  alike  in  some  ways.  That's  just  the  way  I  feel." 

"How  do  you  know  how  I  feel?" 

"I  can  tell  by  your  voice,"  she  said. 

"Can  you,  really?" 

"Why,  yes.    Why  shouldn't  I?" 

"What  a  strange  girl  you  are!"  he  said  thoughtfully.  "I  don't 
think  I  understand  you  quite." 

"Why,  why,  am  I  so  different  from  everyone  else?" 

"Quite,  quite,"  he  said;  "at  least  to  me.  I  have  never  seen 
anyone  quite  like  you  before." 


CHAPTER  V 

IT  was  after  this  meeting  that  vague  consciousness  came  to 
Suzanne  that  Mr.  Witla,  as  she  always  thought  of  him  to 
herself,  was  just  a  little  more  than  very  nice  to  her.  He  was  so 
gentle,  so  meditative,  and  withal  so  gay  when  he  was  near  her! 
He  seemed  fairly  to  bubble  whenever  he  came  into  her  presence, 
never  to  have  any  cause  for  depression  or  gloom  such  as  some- 
times seized  on  her  when  she  was  alone.  He  was  always  immacu- 
lately dressed,  and  had  great  affairs,  so  her  mother  said.  They 
discussed  him  once  at  table  at  Daleview,  and  Mrs.  Dale  said  she 
thought  he  was  charming. 

"He's  one  of  the  nicest  fellows  that  comes  here,.  I  think,"  said 
Kinroy.  "I  don't  like  that  stick,  Woodward." 

He  was  referring  to  another  man  of  about  Eugene's  age  who 
admired  his  mother. 

"Mrs.  Witla  is  such  a  queer  little  woman,"  said  Suzanne. 
"She's  so  different  from  Mr.  Witla.  He's  so  gay  and  good- 
natured,  and  she's  so  reserved.  Is  she  as  old  as  he  is,  mama  ?" 

"I  don't  think  so,"  said  Mrs.  Dale,  who  was  deceived  by 
Angela's  apparent  youth.  "What  makes  you  ask?" 

"Oh,  I  just  wondered!"  said  Suzanne,  who  was  vaguely  curi- 
ous concerning  things  in  connection  with  Eugene. 

There  were  several  other  meetings,  one  of  which  Eugene  engi- 
neered, once  when  he  persuaded  Angela  to  invite  Suzanne  and  her 
mother  to  a  spring  night  revel  they  were  having  at  the  studio, 
and  the  other  when  he  and  Angela  were  invited  to  the  Wille- 
brands,  where  the  Dales  were  also. 

Angela  was  always  with  him.  Mrs.  Dale  almost  always  with 
Suzanne.  There  were  a  few  conversations,  but  they  were  merely 
gay,  inconsequent  make-believe  talks,  in  which  Suzanne  saw  Eu- 
gene as  one  who  was  forever  happy.  She  little  discerned  the 
brooding  depths  of  longing  that  lay  beneath  his  gay  exterior. 

The  climax  was  brought  about,  however,  when  one  July  day 
after  a  short  visit  to  one  of  the  summer  resorts,  Angela  was 
taken  ill.  She  had  always  been  subject  to  colds  and  sore  throats, 
and  these  peculiar  signs,  which  are  associated  by  medical  men 
with  latent  rheumatism,  finally  culminated  in  this  complaint. 
Angela  had  also  been  pronounced  to  have  a  weak  heart,  and  this 
combined  with  a  sudden,  severe  rheumatic  attack  completely 
prostrated  her.  A  trained  nurse  had  to  be  called,  and  Angela's 

528 


THE    "GENIUS"  529 

sister  Marietta  was  sent  for.  Eugene's  sister  Myrtle,  who  now 
lived  in  New  York,  was  asked  by  him  to  come  over  and  take 
charge,  and  under  her  supervision,  pending  Marietta's  arrival* 
his  household  went  forward  smoothly  enough.  The  former,  be- 
ing a  full-fledged  Christian  Scientist,  having  been  instantly  cured* 
as  she  asserted,  of  a  long-standing  nervous  complaint,  was  for 
calling  a  Christian  Science  practitioner,  but  Eugene  would  have 
none  of  it.  He  could  not  believe  that  there  was  anything  in 
this  new  religious  theory,  and  thought  Angela  needed  a  doctor. 
He  sent  for  a  specialist  in  her  complaint.  He  pronounced  that 
six  weeks  at  the  least,  perhaps  two  months,  must  elapse  before 
Angela  would  be  able  to  sit  up  again. 

"Her  system  is  full  of  rheumatism,"  said  her  physician.  "She 
is  in  a  very  bad  way.  Rest  and  quiet,  and  constant  medication 
will  bring  her  round." 

Eugene  was  sorry.  He  did  not  want  to  see  her  suffer,  but  her 
sickness  did  not  for  one  minute  alter  his  mental  attitude.  In 
fact,  he  did  not  see  how  it  could.  It  did  not  change  their  rela- 
tive mental  outlook  in  any  way.  Their  peculiar  relationship  of 
guardian  and  restless  ward  was  quite  unaffected. 

All  social  functions  of  every  kind  were  now  abandoned  and 
Eugene  stayed  at  home  every  evening,  curious  to  see  what  the 
outcome  would  be.  He  wanted  to  see  how  the  trained  nurse  did 
her  work  and  what  the  doctor  thought  would  be  the  next  step. 
He  had  a  great  deal  to  do  at  all  times,  reading,  consulting,  and 
many  of  those  who  wished  to  confer  with  him  came  to  the  apart- 
ment of  an  evening.  All  those  who  knew  them  socially  at  all 
intimately  called  or  sent  messages  of  condolence,  and  among 
those  who  came  were  Mrs.  Dale  and  Suzanne.  The  former  be- 
cause^ Eugene  had  been  so  nice  to  her  in  a  publishing  way  and 
was  shortly  going  to  bring  out  her  first  attempt  at  a  novel  was 
most  assiduous.  She  sent  flowers  and  came  often,  proffering  the 
services  of  Suzanne  for  any  day  that  the  nurse  might  wish  to  be 
off  duty  or  Myrtle  could  not  be  present.  She  thought  Angela 
might  like  to  have  Suzanne  read  to  her.  At  least  the  offer 
sounded  courteous  and  was  made  in  good  faith. 

Suzanne  did  not  come  alone  at  first,  but  after  a  time,  when 
Angela  had  been  ill  four  weeks  and  Eugene  had  stood  the  heat 
of  the  town  apartment  nightly  for  the  chance  of  seeing  her,  she 
did.  Mrs.  Dale  suggested  that  he  should  run  down  to  her  place 
over  Saturday  and  Sunday.  It  was  not  far.  They  were  in  close 
telephone  communication.  It  would  rest  him. 

Eugene,  though  Angela  had  suggested  it  a  number  of  times 


530  THE    "GENIUS" 

before,  had  refused  to  go  to  any  seaside  resort  or  hotel,  even  for 
Saturday  and  Sunday,  his  statement  being  that  he  did  not  care  to 
go  alone  at  this  time.  The  truth  was  he  was  becoming  so  inter- 
ested in  Suzanne  that  he  did  not  care  to  go  anywhere  save  some- 
where that  he  might  see  her  again. 

Mrs.  Dale's  offer  was  welcome  enough,  but  having  dissem- 
bled so  much  he  had  to  dissemble  more.  Mrs.  Dale  insisted. 
Angela  added  her  plea.  Myrtle  thought  he  ought  to  go.  He 
finally  ordered  the  car  to  take  him  down  one  Friday  afternoon 
and  leave  him.  Suzanne  was  out  somewhere,  but  he  sat  on  the 
veranda  and  basked  in  the  magnificent  view  it  gave  of  the  lower 
bay.  Kinroy  and  some  young  friend,  together  with  two  girls, 
were  playing  tennis  on  one  of  the  courts.  Eugene  went  out  to 
watch  them,  and  presently  Suzanne  returned,  ruddy  from  a  walk 
she  had  taken  to  a  neighbor's  house.  At  the  sight  of  her  every 
nerve  in  Eugene's  body  tingled — he  felt  a  great  exaltation,  and 
it  seemed  as  though  she  responded  in  kind,  for  she  was  particu- 
larly gay  and  laughing. 

"They  have  a  four,"  she  called  to  him,  her  white  duck  skirt 
blowing.  "Let's  you  and  I  get  rackets  and  play  single." 

"I'm  not  very  good,  you  know,"  he  said. 

"You  couldn't  be  worse  than  I  am,"  she  replied.  "I'm  so 
bad  Kinroy  won't  let  me  play  in  any  game  with  him.  Ha,  ha!" 

"Such  being  the  case "  Eugene  said  lightly,  and  followed 

her  to  get  the  rackets. 

They  went  to  the  second  court,  where  they  played  practically 
unheeded.  Every  hit  was  a  signal  for  congratulation  on  the  part 
of  one  or  the  other,  every  miss  for  a  burst  of  laughter  or  a  jest. 
Eugene  devoured  Suzanne  with  his  eyes,  and  she  looked  at  him 
continually,  in  wide-eyed  sweetness,  scarcely  knowing  what  she 
was  doing.  Her  own  hilarity  on  this  occasion  was  almost  inex- 
plicable to  her.  It  seemed  as  though  she  was  possessed  of  some 
spirit  of  joy  which  she  couldn't  control.  She  confessed  to  him 
afterward  that  she  had  been  wildly  glad,  exalted,  and  played 
with  freedom  and  abandon,  though  at  the  same  time  she  was 
frightened  and  nervous.  To  Eugene  she  was  of  course  ravishing 
to  behold.  She  could  not  play,  as  she  truly  said,  but  it  made  no 
difference.  Her  motions  were  beautiful. 

Mrs.  Dale  had  long  admired  Eugene's  youthful  spirit.  She 
watched  him  now  from  one  of  the  windows,  and  thought  of  him 
much  as  one  might  of  a  boy.  He  and  Suzanne  looked  charming 
playing  together.  It  occurred  to  her  that  if  he  were  single  he 
would  not  make  a  bad  match  for  her  daughter.  Fortunately  he 


THE    "GENIUS"  531 

was  sane,  prudent,  charming,  more  like  a  guardian  to  Suzanne 
than  anything  else.  Her  friendship  for  him  was  rather  a  healthy 
sign. 

After  dinner  it  was  proposed  by  Kinroy  that  he  and  his 
friends  and  Suzanne  go  to  a  dance  which  was  being  given  at  a 
club  house,  near  the  government  fortifications  at  The  Narrows, 
where  they  spread  out  into  the  lower  bay.  Mrs.  Dale,  not  wish- 
ing to  exclude  Eugene,  who  was  depressed  at  the  thought  of 
Suzanne's  going  and  leaving  him  behind,  suggested  that  they  all 
go.  She  did  not  care  so  much  for  dancing  herself,  but  Suzanne 
had  no  partner  and  Kinroy  and  his  friend  were  very  much  inter- 
ested in  the  girls  they  were  taking.  A  car  was  called,  and  they 
sped  to  the  club  to  find  it  dimly  lighted  with  Chinese  lanterns, 
and  an  orchestra  playing  softly  in  the  gloom. 

"Now  you  go  ahead  and  dance,"  said  her  mother  to  Suzanne. 
"I  want  to  sit  out  here  and  look  at  the  water  a  while.  I'll  watch 
you  through  the  door." 

Eugene  held  out  his  hand  to  Suzanne,  who  took  it,  and  in  a 
moment  they  were  whirling  round.  A  kind  of  madness  seized 
them  both,  for  without  a  word  or  look  they  drew  close  to  each 
other  and  danced  furiously,  in  a  clinging  ecstasy  of  joy. 

"Oh,  how  lovely!"  Suzanne  exclaimed  at  one  turn  of  the 
room,  where,  passing  an  open  door,  they  looked  out  and  saw  a 
full  lighted  ship  passing  silently  by  in  the  distant  dark.  A  sail 
boat;  its  one  great  sail  enveloped  in  a  shadowy  quiet,  floated 
wraith-like,  nearer  still. 

"Do  scenes  like  that  appeal  to  you  so?"  asked  Eugene. 

"Oh,  do  they!"  she  pulsated.  "They  take  my  breath  away. 
This  does,  too,  it's  so  lovely!" 

Eugene  sighed.  He  understood  now.  Never,  he  said  to  him- 
self, was  the  soul  of  an  artist  so  akin  to  his  own  and  so  envel- 
oped in  beauty.  This  same  thirst  for  beauty  that  was  in  him 
was  in  her,  and  it  was  pulling  her  to  him.  Only  her  soul  was  so 
exquisitely  set  in  youth  and  beauty  and  maidenhood  that  it 
overawed  and  frightened  him.  It  seemed  impossible  that  she 
should  ever  love  him.  These  eyes,  this  face  of  hers — how  they 
enchanted  him!  He  was  drawn  as  by  a  strong  cord,  and  so  was 
she — by  an  immense,  terrible  magnetism.  He  had  felt  it  all  the 
afternoon.  Keenly.  He  was  feeling  it  intensely  now.  He 
pressed  her  to  his  bosom,  and  she  yielded,  yearningly,  suiting  her 
motions  to  his  subtlest  moods.  He  wanted  to  exclaim:  "Oh, 
Suzanne!  Oh,  Suzanne!"  but  he  was  afraid.  If  he  said  any- 
thing to  her  it  would  frighten  her.  She  did  not  really  dream  as 
yet  what  it  all  meant. 


532  THE    "GENIUS" 

"You  know,"  he  said,  when  the  music  stopped,  "I'm  quite 
beside  myself.  It's  narcotic.  I  feel  like  a  boy." 

"Oh,  if  they  would  only  go  on!"  was  all  she  said.  And  to- 
gether they  went  out  on  the  veranda,  where  there  were  no  lights 
but  only  chairs  and  the  countless  stars. 

"Well?"  said  Mrs.  Dale. 

"I'm  afraid  you  don't  love  to  dance  as  well  as  I  do?"  observed 
Eugene  calmly,  sitting  down  beside  her. 

"I'm  afraid  I  don't,  seeing  how  joyously  you  do  it.  I've  been 
watching  you.  You  two  dance  well  together.  Kinroy,  won't 
you  have  them  bring  us  ices?" 

Suzanne  had  slipped  away  to  the  side  of  her  brother's  friends. 
She  talked  to  them  cheerily  the  while  Eugene  watched  her,  but 
she  was  intensely  conscious  of  his  presence  and  charm.  She  tried 
to  think  what  she  was  doing,  but  somehow  she  could  not — she 
could  only  feel.  The  music  struck  up  again,  and  for  looks'  sake 
he  let  her  dance  with  her  brother's  friend.  The  next  was  his, 
and  the  next,  for  Kinroy  preferred  to  sit  out  one,  and  his  friend 
also.  Suzanne  and  Eugene  danced  the  major  portions  of  the 
dances  together,  growing  into  a  wild  exaltation,  which,  however, 
was  wordless  except  for  a  certain  eagerness  which  might  have 
been  read  into  what  they  said.  Their  hands  spoke  when  they 
touched  and  their  eyes  when  they  met.  Suzanne  was  intensely 
shy  and  fearsome.  She  was  really  half  terrified  by  what  she  was 
doing — afraid  lest  some  word  or  thought  would  escape  Eugene, 
and  she  wanted  to  dwell  in  the  joy  of  this.  He  went  once  be- 
tween two  dances,  when  she  was  hanging  over  the  rail  looking 
at  the  dark,  gurgling  water  below,  and  leaned  over  beside  her. 

"How  wonderful  this  night  is!"  he  said. 

"Yes,  yes!"  she  exclaimed,  and  looked  away. 

"Do  you  wonder  at  all  at  the  mystery  of  life?" 

"Oh,  yes;  oh,  yes!    All  the  time." 

"And  you  are  so  young!"  he  said  passionately,  intensely. 

"Sometimes,  you  know,  Mr.  Witla,"  she  sighed,  "I  do  not 
like  to  think." 

"Why?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know;  I  just  can't  tell  you!  I  can't  find  words. 
I  don't  know." 

There  was  an  intense  pathos  in  her  phrasing  which  meant 
everything  to  his  understanding.  He  understood  how  voiceless 
a  great  soul  really  might  be,  new  born  without  an  earth-manu- 
factured vocabulary.  It  gave  him  a  clearer  insight  into  a  thought 
he  had  had  for  a  long  while  and  that  was  that  we  came,  as 
Wordsworth  expressed  it,  "trailing  clouds  of  glory."  But  from 


THE    ''GENIUS"  533 

where?  Her  soul  must  be  intensely  wise — else  why  his  yearning 
to  her?  But,  oh,  the  pathos  of  her  voicelessness ! 

They  went  home  in  the  car,  and  late  that  night,  while  he 
was  sitting  on  the  veranda  smoking  to  soothe  his  fevered  brain, 
there  was  one  other  scene.  The  night  was  intensely  warm  every- 
where except  on  this  hill,  where  a  cool  breeze  was  blowing.  The 
ships  on  the  sea  and  bay  were  many — twinkling  little  lights — and 
the  stars  in  the  sky  were  as  a  great  army.  "See  how  the  floor  of 
heaven  is  thick  inlaid  with  patines  of  bright  gold,"  he  quoted  to 
himself.  A  door  opened  and  Suzanne  came  out  of  the  library, 
which  opened  on  to  the  veranda.  He  had  not  expected  to  see 
her  again,  nor  she  him.  The  beauty  of  the  night  had  drawn  her. 

"Suzanne!"  he  said,  when  the  door  opened. 

She  looked  at  him,  poised  in  uncertainty,  her  lovely  white  face 
glowing  like  a  pale  phosphorescent  light  in  the  dark. 

"Isn't  it  beautiful  out  here?    Come,  sit  down." 

"No,"  she  said.  "I  mustn't  stay.  It  is  so  beautiful!"  She 
looked  about  her  vaguely,  nervously,  and  then  at  him.  "Oh,  that 
breeze !"  She  turned  up  her  nose  and  sniffed  eagerly. 

"The  music  is  still  whirling  in  my  head,"  he  said,  coming  to 
her.  "I  cannot  get  over  tonight."  He  spoke  softly — almost  in 
a  whisper — and  threw  his  cigar  away.  Suzanne's  voice  was  low. 

She  looked  at  him  and  filled  her  deep  broad  chest  with  air. 
"Oh!"  she  sighed,  throwing  back  her  head,  her  neck  curving 
divinely. 

"One  more  dance,"  he  said,  taking  her  right  hand  and  putting 
his  left  upon  her  waist. 

She  did  not  retreat  from  him,  but  looked  half  distrait,  half 
entranced  in  his  eyes. 

"Without  music?"  she  asked.    She  was  almost  trembling. 

"You  are  music,"  he  replied,  her  intense  sense  of  suffocation 
seizing  him. 

They  moved  a  few  paces  to  the  left  where  there  were  no  win- 
dows and  where  no  one  could  see.  He  drew  her  close  to  him 
and  looked  into  her  face,  but  still  he  did  not  dare  say  what  he 
thought.  They  moved  about  softly,  and  then  she  gurgled  that 
soft  laugh  that  had  entranced  him  from  the  first.  "What  would 
people  think?"  she  asked. 

They  walked  to  the  railing,  he  still  holding  her  hand,  and  then 
she  withdrew  it.  He  was  conscious  of  great  danger — of  jeop- 
ardizing a  wonderfully  blissful  relationship,  and  finally  said: 
"Perhaps  we  had  better  go." 

"Yes,"  she  said.  "Ma-ma  would  be  greatly  disturbed  if  she 
knew  this." 


534  THE    '"GENIUS" 

She  walked  ahead  of  him  to  the  door. 

"Good  night,"  she  whispered. 

"Good  night/'  he  sighed. 

He  went  back  to  his  chair  and  meditated  on  the  course  he  was 
pursuing.  This  was  a  terrible  risk.  Should  he  go  on?  The 
flower-like  face  of  Suzanne  came  back  to  him — her  supple  body, 
her  wondrous  grace  and  beauty.  "Oh,  perhaps  not,  but  what  a 
loss,  what  a  lure  to  have  flaunted  in  front  of  his  eyes!  Were 
there  ever  thoughts  and  feelings  like  these  in  so  young  a  body? 
Never,  never,  never,  had  he  seen  her  like.  Never  in  all  his  ex- 
periences had  he  seen  anything  so  exquisite.  She  was  like  the 
budding  woods  in  spring,  like  little  white  and  blue  flowers  grow- 
ing. If  life  now  for  once  would  only  be  kind  and  give  him  her! 

"Oh,  Suzanne,  Suzanne!"  he  breathed  to  himself,  lingering 
over  the  name. 

For  a  fourth  or  a  fifth  time  Eugene  was  imagining  himself  to 
be  terribly,  eagerly,  fearsomely  in  love. 


CHAPTER  VI 

THIS  burst  of  emotion  with  its  tentative  understanding  so 
subtly  reached,  changed  radically  and  completely  the  whole 
complexion  of  life  for  Eugene.  Once  more  now  the  spirit  of 
youth  had  returned  to  him.  He  had  been  resenting  all  this 
while,  in  spite  of  his  success,  the  passage  of  time,  for  he  was 
daily  and  hourly  growing  older,  and  what  had  he  really  achieved? 
The  more  Eugene  had  looked  at  life  through  the  medium  of  his 
experiences,  the  more  it  had  dawned  on  him  that  somehow  all 
effort  was  pointless.  To  where  and  what  did  one  attain  when 
one  attained  success?  Was  it  for  houses  and  lands  and  fine  fur- 
nishings and  friends  that  one  was  really  striving?  Was  there 
any  such  thing  as  real  friendship  in  life,  and  what  were  its 
fruits — intense  satisfaction  ?  In  some  few  instances,  perhaps,  but 
in  the  main  what  a  sorry  jest  most  so-called  friendships  veiled! 
How  often  they  were  coupled  with  self-interest,  self-seeking, 
self-everything!  We  associated  in  friendship  mostly  only  with 
those  who  were  of  our  own  social  station.  A  good  friend.  Did 
he  possess  one  ?  An  inefficient  friend  ?  Would  one  such  long  be 
his  friend?  Life  moved  in  schools  of  those  who  could  run  a 
certain  pace,  maintain  a  certain  standard  of  appearances,  compel 
a  certain  grade  of  respect  and  efficiency  in  others.  Colfax  was 
his  friend — for  the  present.  So  was  Winfield.  About  him  were 
scores  and  hundreds  who  were  apparently  delighted  to  grasp  his 
hand,  but  for  what?  His  fame?  Certainly.  His  efficiency? 
Yes.  Only  by  the  measure  of  his  personal  power  and  strength 
could  he  measure  his  friends — no  more. 

And  as  for  love — what  had  he  ever  had  of  love  before? 
When  he  went  back  in  his  mind,  it  seemed  now  that  all,  each, 
and  every  one,  had  been  combined  in  some  way  with  lust  and  evil 
thinking.  Could  he  say  that  he  had  ever  been  in  love  truly? 
Certainly  not  with  Margaret  Duff  or  Ruby  Kenny  or  Angela — 
though  that  was  the  nearest  he  had  come  to  true  love — or  Chris- 
tina Channing.  He  had  liked  all  these  women  very  much,  as  he 
had  Carlotta  Wilson,  but  had  he  ever  loved  one?  Never.  An- 
gela had  won  him  through  his  sympathy  for  her,  he  told  himself 
now.  He  had  been  induced  to  marry  out  of  remorse.  And 
here  he  was  now  having  lived  all  these  years  and  come  all  this 
way  without  having  truly  loved.  Now,  behold  Suzanne  Dale 
with  her  perfection  of  soul  and  body,  and  he  was  wild  about  her 

535 


536  THE    "GENIUS" 

— not  for  lust,  but  for  love.  He  wanted  to  be  with  her,  to  hold 
her  hands,  to  kiss  her  lips,  to  watch  her  smile ;  but  nothing  more. 
It  was  true  her  body  had  its  charm.  In  extremes  it  would  draw 
him,  but  the  beauty  of  her  mind  and  appearance — there  lay  the 
fascination.  He  was  heartsick  at  being  compelled  to  be  absent 
from  her,  and  yet  he  did  not  know  that  he  would  ever  be  able 
to  attain  her  at  all. 

As  he  thought  of  his  condition,  it  rather  terrified  and  nause- 
ated him.  To  think,  after  having  known  this  one  hour  of  wonder 
and  superlative  bliss,  of  being  compelled  to  come  back  into  the 
work-a-day  world !  Nor  were  things  improving  at  the  office  of  the 
United  Magazines  Corporation.  Instead  of  growing  better, 
they  were  growing  worse.  With  the  diversity  of  his  interests, 
particularly  the  interest  he  held  in  the  Sea  Island  Realty  and 
Construction  Company,  he  was  growing  rather  lackadaisical  in 
his  attitude  toward  all  magazine  interests  with  which  he  was 
connected.  He  had  put  in  strong  men  wherever  he  could  find 
them,  but  these  had  come  to  be  very  secure  in  their  places,  work- 
ing without  very  much  regard  to  him  since  he  could  not  give 
them  very  much  attention.  White  and  Colfax  had  become  inti- 
mate with  many  of  them  personally.  Some  of  them,  such  as 
Hayes,  the  advertising  man,  the  circulation  manager,  the  editor 
of  the  International  Review,  the  editor  in  charge  of  books,  were 
so  very  able  that,  although  it  was  true  that  Eugene  had  hired 
them  it  was  practically  settled  that  they  could  not  be  removed. 
Colfax  and  White  had  come  to  understand  by  degrees  that  Eu- 
gene was  a  person  who,  however  brilliant  he  might  be  in  select- 
ing men,  was  really  not  capable  of  attention  to  detail.  He  could 
not  bring  his  mind  down  to  small  practical  points.  If  he  had 
been  an  owner,  like  Colfax,  or  a  practical  henchman  like  White, 
he  would  have  been  perfectly  safe,  but  being  a  natural-born 
leader,  or  rather  organizer,  he  was,  unless  he  secured  control  in 
the  beginning,  rather  hopeless  and  helpless  when  organization  was 
completed.  Others  could  attend  to  details  better  than  he  could. 
Colfax  came  to  know  his  men  and  like  them.  In  absences  which 
had  become  more  frequent,  as  Eugene  became  more  secure,  and 
as  he  took  up  with  Winfield,  they  had  first  gone  to  Colfax  for 
advice,  and  later,  in  Colfax's  absence,  to  White.  The  latter  re- 
ceived them  with  open  arms.  Indeed,  among  themselves,  hfs 
lieutenants  frequently  discussed  Eugene  and  agreed  that  in 
organizing,  or  rather  reorganizing  the  place,  he  had  done  his 
great  work.  He  might  have  been  worth  twenty-five  thousand 
a  year  doing  that,  but  hardly  as  a  man  to  sit  about  and  cool  his 
heels  after  the  work  was  done.  White  had  persistently  whis- 


THE    "GENIUS"  537 

pered  suggestions  of  Eugene's  commercial  inefficiency  for  the 
task  he  was  essaying  to  Coif  ax.  "He  is  really  trying  to  do  up 
there  what  you  ought  to  be  doing,"  he  told  him,  "and  what  you 
can  do  better.  You  want  to  remember  that  you've  learned  a  lot 
since  you  came  in  here,  and  so  has  he,  only  he  has  become  a  little 
less  practical  and  you  have  become  more  so.  These  men  of  his 
look  more  to  you  now  than  they  do  to  him." 

Colfax  rejoiced  in  the  thought.  He  liked  Eugene,  but  he 
liked  the  idea  better  that  his  business  interests  were  perfectly 
safe.  He  did  not  like  to  think  that  any  one  man  was  becoming 
so  strong  that  his  going  would  injure  him,  and  this  thought  for 
a  long  time  during  Eugene's  early  ascendancy  had  troubled  him. 
The  latter  had  carried  himself  with  such  an  air.  Eugene  had 
fancied  that  Colfax  needed  to  be  impressed  with  his  importance, 
and  this,  in  addition  to  his  very  thorough  work,  was  one  way  to 
do  it.  His  manner  had  grated  on  Colfax  after  a  time,  for  he 
was  the  soul  of  vainglory  himself,  and  he  wanted  no  other  gods 
in  the  place  beside  himself.  White,  on  the  contrary,  was  con- 
stantly subservient  and  advisory  in  his  manner.  It  made  a  great 
difference. 

By  degrees,  through  one  process  and  another,  Eugene  had  lost 
ground,  but  it  was  only  in  a  nebulous  way  as  yet,  and  not  in  any- 
thing tangible.  If  he  had  never  turned  his  attention  to  any- 
thing else,  had  never  wearied  of  any  detail,  and  kept  close  to 
Colfax  and  to  his  own  staff,  he  would  have  been  safe.  As  it 
was,  he  began  now  to  neglect  them  more  than  ever,  and  this 
could  not  fail  to  tell  rather  disastrously  in  the  long  run. 

In  the  first  place  the  prospects  in  connection  with  the  Sea 
Island  Construction  Company  were  apparently  growing  brighter 
and  brighter.  It  was  one  of  those  schemes  which  would  take 
years  and  years  to  develop,  but  it  did  not  look  that  way  at  first. 
Rather  it  seemed  to  be  showing  tangible  evidences  of  accomplish- 
ment. The  first  year,  after  a  good  deal  of  money  had  been  in- 
vested, considerable  dredging  operations  were  carried  out,  and 
dry  land  appeared  in  many  places — a  long  stretch  of  good  earth 
to  the  rear  of  the  main  beach  whereon  hotels  and  resorts  of  all 
sorts  could  be  constructed.  The  boardwalk  was  started  after  a 
model  prepared  by  Eugene,  and  approved — after  modification — 
by  the  architect  engaged,  and  a  portion  of  the  future  great  dining 
and  dancing  casinos  was  begun  and  completed,  a  beautiful  build- 
ing modeled  on  a  combination  of  the  Moorish,  Spanish  and  Old 
Mission  styles.  A  notable  improvement  in  design  had  been  ef- 
fected in  this  scheme,  for  the  color  of  Blue  Sea,  according  to 
Eugene's  theory,  was  to  be  red,  white,  yellow,  blue,  and  green, 


538  THE    "GENIUS" 

done  in  spirited  yet  simple  outlines.  The  walls  of  all  buildings 
were  to  be  white  and  yellow,  latticed  with  green.  The  roofs, 
porticos,  lintels,  piers,  and  steps  were  to  be  red,  yellow,  green, 
and  blue.  There  were  to  be  round,  shallow  Italian  pools  of 
concrete  in  many  of  the  courts  and  interiors  of  the  houses.  The 
hotels  were  to  be  western  modifications  of  the  Giralda  in  Spain, 
each  one  a  size  smaller,  or  larger,  than  the  other.  Green  spear 
pines  and  tall  cone-shaped  poplars  were  to  be  the  prevailing  tree 
decorations.  The  railroad,  as  Mr.  Winfield  promised,  had  al- 
ready completed  its  spur  and  Spanish  depot,  which  was  beauti- 
ful. It  looked  truly  as  though  Blue  Sea  would  become 
what  Winfield  said  it  would  become;  the  seaside  resort  of 
America. 

The  actuality  of  this  progress  fascinated  Eugene  so  much  that 
he  gave,  until  Suzanne  appeared,  much  more  time  than  he  really 
should  have  to  the  development  of  the  scheme.  As  in  the  days 
when  he  first  went  with  Summerfield,  he  worked  of  nights  on 
exterior  and  interior  layouts,  as  he  called  them — facades,  ground 
arrangements,  island  improvements,  and  so  on.  He  went  fre- 
quently with  Winfield  and  his  architect  in  his  auto  to  see  how 
Blue  Sea  wTas  getting  on  and  to  visit  monied  men,  who  might  be 
interested.  He  drew  up  plans  for  ads  and  booklets,  making  ro- 
mantic sketches  and  originating  catch  lines. 

In  the  next  place,  after  Suzanne  appeared,  he  began  to  pay 
attention  almost  exclusively  in  his  thoughts  to  her.  He  could  not 
get  her  out  of  his  head  night  or  day.  She  haunted  his  thoughts 
in  the  office,  at  home,  and  in  his  dreams.  He  began  actually  to 
burn  with  a  strange  fever,  which  gave  him  no  rest.  When 
would  he  see  her  again  ?  When  would  he  see  her  again  ?  When 
would  he  see  her  again?  He  could  see  her  only  as  he  danced 
with  her  at  the  boat  club,  as  he  sat  with  her  in  the  swing  at  Dale- 
view.  It  was  a  wild,  aching  desire  which  gave  him  no  peace  any 
more  than  any  other  fever  of  the  brain  ever  does. 

Once,  not  long  after  he  and  she  had  danced  at  the  boat  club  to- 
gether, she  came  with  her  mother  to  see  how  Angela  was,  and 
Eugene  had  a  chance  to  say  a  few  words  to  her  in  the  studio,  for 
they  came  after  five  in  the  afternoon  when  he  was  at  home.  Su- 
zanne gazed  at  him  wide-eyed,  scarcely  knowing  what  to  think, 
though  she  was  fascinated.  He  asked  her  eagerly  where  she  had 
been,  where  she  was  going  to  be. 

"Why,"  she  said  gracefully,  her  pretty  lips  parted,  "we're 
going  to  Bentwood  Hadley's  tomorrow.  Well  be  there  for  a 
week,  I  fancy.  Maybe  longer." 

"Have  you  thought  of  me  much,  Suzanne?" 


THE    "GENIUS'  539 

"Yes,  yes!  But  you  mustn't,  Mr.  Witla.  No,  no.  I  don't 
know  what  to  think." 

"If  I  came  to  Bentwood  Hadleys,  would  you  be  glad?" 

"Oh,  yes,"  she  said  hesitatingly,  "but  you  mustn't  come." 

Eugene  was  there  that  week-end.  It  wasn't  difficult  to  man- 
age. 

"I'm  awfully  tired,"  he  wrote  to  Mrs.  Hadley.  "Why  don't 
you  invite  me  out?" 

"Come!"  came  a  telegram,  and  he  went. 

On  this  occasion,  he  was  more  fortunate  than  ever.  Suzanne 
was  there,  out  riding  when  he  came,  but,  as  he  learned  from 
Mrs.  Hadley,  there  was  a  dance  on  at  a  neighboring  country 
club.  Suzanne  with  a  number  of  others  was  going.  Mrs.  Dale 
decided  to  go,  and  invited  Eugene.  He  seized  the  offer,  for  he 
knew  he  would  get  a  chance  to  dance  with  his  ideal.  When 
they  were  going  in  to  dinner,  he  met  Suzanne  in  the  hall. 

"I  am  going  with  you,"  he  said  eagerly.  "Save  a  few  dances 
for  me." 

"Yes,"  she  said,  inhaling  her  breath  in  a  gasp. 

They  went,  and  he  initialled  her  card  in  five  places. 

"We  must  be  careful,"  she  pleaded.     "Ma-ma  won't  like  it." 

He  saw  by  this  that  she  was  beginning  to  understand,  and 
would  plot  with  him.  Why  was  he  luring  her  on?  Why  did 
she  let  him? 

When  he  slipped  his  arm  about  her  in  the  first  dance  he  said, 
"At  last!"  And  then:  "I  have  waited  for  this  so  long." 

Suzanne  made  no  reply. 

"Look  at  me,  Suzanne,"  he  pleaded. 

"I  can't,"  she  said. 

"Oh,  look  at  me,"  he  urged,  "once,  please.  Look  in  my 
eyes." 

"No,  no,"  she  begged,  "I  can't." 

"Oh,  Suzanne,"  he  exclaimed,  "I  am  crazy  about  you.  I  am 
mad.  I  have  lost  all  reason.  Your  face  is  like  a  flower  to  me. 
Your  eyes — I  can't  tell  you  about  your  eyes.  Look  at  me!" 

"No,"  she  pleaded. 

"It  seems  as  though  the  days  will  never  end  in  which  I  do 
not  see  you.  I  wait  and  wait.  Suzanne,  do  I  seem  like  a  silly 
fool  to  you  ?" 

"No." 

"I  am  counted  sharp  and  able.  They  tell  me  I  am  brilliant. 
You  are  the  most  perfect  thing  that  I  have  ever  known.  I  think 
of  you  awake  and  asleep.  I  could  paint  a  thousand  pictures  of 
you.  My  art  seems  to  come  back  to  me  through  you.  If  I 


540  THE  "GENIUS'1 

live  I  will  paint  you  in  a  hundred  ways.  Have  you  ever  seen 
the  Rossetti  woman?" 

"No." 

"He  painted  a  hundred  portraits  of  her.  I  shall  paint  a  thou- 
sand of  you." 

She  lifted  her  eyes  to  look  at  him  shyly,  wonderingly,  drawn 
by  this  terrific  passion.  His  own  blazed  into  hers.  "Oh,  look  at 
me  again,"  he  whispered,  when  she  dropped  them  under  the 
fire  of  his  glance. 

"I  can't,"  she  pleaded. 

"Oh,  yes,  once  more." 

She  lifted  her  eyes  and  it  seemed  as  though  their  souls  would 
blend.  He  felt  dizzy,  and  Suzanne  reeled. 

"Do  you  love  me,  Suzanne?"  he  asked. 

"I  don't  know,"  she  trembled. 

"Do  you  love  me?" 

"Don't  ask  me  now." 

The  music  ceased  and  Suzanne  was  gone. 

He  did  not  see  her  until  much  later,  for  she  slipped  away 
to  think.  Her  soul  was  stirred  as  with  a  raging  storm.  It 
seemed  as  though  her  very  soul  was  being  torn  up.  She  was 
tremulous,  tumultuous,  unsettled,  yearning,  eager.  She  came 
back  after  a  time  and  they  danced  again,  but  she  was  calmer 
apparently.  They  went  out  on  a  balcony,  and  he  contrived  to 
say  a  few  words  there. 

"You  mustn't,"  she  pleaded.    "I  think  we  are  being  watched." 

He  left  her,  and  on  the  way  home  in  the  auto  he  whispered: 
"I  shall  be  on  the  west  veranda  tonight.  Will  you  come?" 

"I  don't  know,  I'll  try." 

He  walked  leisurely  to  that  place  later  \vhen  all  was  still, 
and  sat  down  to  wait.  Gradually  the  great  house  quieted.  It 
was  one  and  one-thirty,  and  then  nearly  two  before  the  door 
opened.  A  figure  slipped  out,  the  lovely  form  of  Suzanne,  dressed 
as  she  had  been  at  the  ball,  a  veil  of  lace  over  her  hair. 

"I'm  so  afraid,"  she  said,  "I  scarcely  know  what  I  am  doing. 
Are  you  sure  no  one  will  see  us?" 

"Let  us  walk  down  the  path  to  the  field."  It  was  the  same 
way  they  had  taken  in  the  early  spring  when  he  had  met  her 
here  before.  In  the  west  hung  low  a  waning  moon,  yellow, 
sickle  shaped,  very  large  because  of  the  hour. 

"Do  you  remember  when  we  were  here  before?" 

"Yes." 

"I  loved  you  then.     Did  you  care  for  me?" 

"No." 


THE    "GENIUS'  541 

They  walked  on  under  the  trees,  he  holding  her  hand. 

"Oh,  this  night,  this  night,"  he  said,  the  strain  of  his  intense 
emotion  wearying  him. 

They  came  out  from  under  the  trees  at  the  end  of  the  path. 
There  was  a  sense  of  August  dryness  in  the  air.  It  was  warm, 
sensuous.  About  were  the  sounds  of  insects,  faint  bumblings, 
cracklings.  A  tree  toad  chirped,  or  a  bird  cried. 

"Come  to  me,  Suzanne,"  he  said  at  last  when  they  emerged 
into  the  full  light  of  the  moon  at  the  end  of  the  path  and 
paused.  "Come  to  me."  He  slipped  his  arm  about  her. 

"No,"  she  said.     "No." 

"Look  at  me,  Suzanne,"  he  pleaded;  "I  want  to  tell  you  how 
much  I  love  you.  Oh,  I  have  no  words.  It  seems  ridiculous 
to  try  to  tell  you.  Tell  me  that  you  love  me,  Suzanne.  Tell 
me  now.  I  am  crazy  with  love  of  you.  Tell  me." 

"No,"   she  said,   "I   can't." 

"Kiss  me!" 

"No!" 

He  drew  her  to  him  and  turned  her  face  up  by  her  chin  in 
spite  of  her.  "Open  your  eyes,"  he  pleaded.  "Oh,  God!  That 
this  should  come  to  me!  Now  I  could  die.  Life  can  hold  no 
more.  Oh,  Flower  Face!  Oh,  Silver  Feet!  Oh,  Myrtle 
Bloom!  Divine  Fire!  How  perfect  you  are.  How  perfect!' 
And  to  think  you  love  me!" 

He  kissed  her  eagerly. 

"Kiss  me,  Suzanne.  Tell  me  that  you  love  me.  Tell  me. 
Oh,  how  I  love  that  name,  Suzanne.  Whisper  to  me  you  love 
me." 

"No." 

"But  you  do." 

"No." 

"Look  at  me,  Suzanne.  Flower  face.  Myrtle  Bloom.  For 
God's  sake,  look  at  me!  You  love  me." 

"Oh,  yes,  yes,  yes,"  she  sobbed  of  a  sudden,  throwing  her 
arm  around  his  neck.  "Oh,  yes,  yes." 

"Don't  cry,"  he  pleaded.  "Oh,  sweet,  don't  cry.  I  am  mad 
for  love  of  you,  mad.  Kiss  me  now,  one  kiss.  I  am  staking 
my  soul  on  your  love.  Kiss  me!" 

He  pressed  his  lips  to  hers,  but  she  burst  away,  terror-stricken. 

"Oh,  I  am  so  frightened,"  she  exclaimed  all  at  once.  "Oh, 
what  shall  I  do?  I  am  so  afraid.  Oh,  please,  please.  Some- 
thing terrifies  me.  Something  scares  me.  Oh,  what  am  I 
going  to  do  ?  Let  me  go  back." 


542  THE    "GENIUS" 

She  was  white  and  trembling.  Her  hands  were  nervously 
clasping  and  unclasping. 

Eugene  smoothed  her  arm  soothingly.  "Be  still,  Suzanne," 
he  said.  "Be  still.  I  shall  say  no  more.  You  are  all  right. 
I  have  frightened  you.  We  will  go  back.  Be  calm.  You  are 
all  right." 

He  recovered  his  own  poise  with  an  effort  because  of  her  obvi- 
ous terror,  and  led  her  back  under  the  trees.  To  reassure  her  he 
drew  his  cigar  case  from  his  pocket  and  pretended  to  select  a  cigar. 
When  he  saw  her  calming,  he  put  it  back. 

"Are  you  quieter  now,  sweet?"  he  asked,  tenderly. 

"Yes,  but  let  us  go  back." 

"Listen.  I  will  only  go  as  far  as  the  edge.  You  go  alone. 
I  will  watch  you  safely  to  the  door." 

"Yes,"  she  said  peacefully. 

"And  you  really  love  me,  Suzanne?" 

"Oh,  yes,  but  don't  speak  of  it.  Not  tonight.  You  will 
frighten  me  again.  Let  us  go  back." 

They  strolled  on.  Then  he  said:  "One  kiss,  sweet,  in  part- 
ing. One.  Life  has  opened  anew  for  me.  You  are  the  solvent 
of  my  whole  being.  You  are  making  me  over  into  something 
different.  I  feel  as  though  I  had  never  lived  until  now.  Oh, 
this  experience!  It  is  such  a  wonderful  thing  to  have  done — 
to  have  lived  through,  to  have  changed  as  I  have  changed. 
You  have  changed  me  so  completely,  made  me  over  into  the  artist 
again.  From  now  on  I  can  paint  again.  I  can  paint  you."  He 
scarcely  knew  what  he  was  saying.  He  felt  as  though  he  were 
revealing  himself  to  himself  as  in  an  apocalyptic  vision. 

She  let  him  kiss  her,  but  she  was  too  frightened  and  wrought 
to  even  breathe  right.  She  was  intense,  emotional,  strange. 
She  did  not  really  understand  what  it  was  that  he  was  talking 
about. 

"Tomorrow,"  he  said,  "at  the  wood's  edge.  Tomorrow. 
Sweet  dreams.  I  shall  never  know  peace  any  more  without 
your  love." 

And  he  watched  her  eagerly,  sadly,  bitterly,  ecstatically,  as 
she  walked  lightly  from  him,  disappearing  like  a  shadow  through 
the  dark  and  silent  door. 


CHAPTER  VII 

IT  would  be  impossible  to  describe  even  in  so  detailed  an 
account  as  this  the  subtleties,  vagaries,  beauties  and  terrors 
of  the  emotions  which  seized  upon  him,  and  which  by  degrees 
began  also  to  possess  Suzanne,  once  he  became  wholly  infatuated 
with  her.  Mrs.  Dale,  was,  after  a  social  fashion,  one  of  Eu- 
gene's best  friends.  She  had  since  she  had  first  come  to  know 
him  spread  his  fame  far  and  wide  as  an  immensely  clever  pub- 
lisher and  editor,  an  artist  of  the  greatest  power,  and  a  man  of 
lovely  and  delightful  ideas  and  personal  worth.  He  knew 
from  various  conversations  with  her  that  Suzanne  was  the  apple 
of  her  eye.  He  had  heard  her  talk,  had,  in  fact,  discussed  with 
her  the  difficulties  of  rearing  a  simple  mannered,  innocent-minded 
girl  in  present  day  society.  She  had  confided  to  him  that  it  had 
been  her  policy  to  give  Suzanne  the  widest  liberty  consistent  with 
good-breeding  and  current  social  theories.  She  did  not  want  to 
make  her  bold  or  unduly  self-reliant,  and  yet  she  wanted  her  to 
be  free  and  natural.  Suzanne,  she  was  convinced,  from  long 
observation  and  many  frank  conversations,  was  innately  hon- 
est, truthful  and  clean-minded.  She  did  not  understand  her  ex- 
actly, for  what  mother  can  clearly  understand  any  child ;  but  she 
thought  she  read  her  well  enough  to  know  that  she  was  in  some 
indeterminate  way  forceful  and  able,  like  her  father,  and  that 
she  would  naturally  gravitate  to  what  was  worth  while  in  life. 
Had  she  any  talent?  Mrs.  Dale  really  did  not  know.  The 
girl  had  vague  yearnings  toward  something  which  was  anything 
but  social  in  its  quality.  She  did  not  care  anything  at  all  for 
most  of  the  young  men  and  women  she  met.  She  went  about  a 
great  deal,  but  it  was  to  ride  and  drive.  Games  of  chance  did 
not  interest  her.  Drawing-room  conversations  were  amusing  to 
her,  but  not  gripping.  She  liked  interesting  characters,  able 
books,  striking  pictures.  She  had  been  particularly  impressed 
with  those  of  Eugene's;  she  had  seen  and  had  told  her  mother 
that  they  were  wonderful.  She  loved  poetry  of  high  order,  and 
was  possessed  of  a  boundless  appetite  for  the  ridiculous  and  the 
comic.  An  unexpected  faux  pas  was  apt  to  throw  her  into  un- 
controllable fits  of  laughter  and  the  funny  page  selections  of 
the  current  newspaper  artists,  when  she  could  obtain  them, 
amused  her  intensely.  She  was  a  student  of  character,  and  of 
her  own  mother,  and  was  beginning  to  see  clearly  what  were 

543 


544  THE    "GENIUS" 

the  motives  that  were  prompting  her  mother  in  her  attitude 
toward  herself,  quite  as  clearly  as  that  person  did  herself  and 
better.  At  bottom  she  was  more  talented  than  her  mother, 
but  in  a  different  way.  She  was  not,  as  yet,  as  self-controlled, 
or  as  understanding  of  current  theories  and  beliefs  as  her  mother, 
but  she  was  artistic,  emotional,  excitable,  in  an  intellectual 
way,  and  capable  of  high  flights  of  fancy  and  of  intense  and  fine 
appreciations.  Her  really  sensuous  beauty  was  nothing  to  her. 
She  did  not  value  it  highly.  She  knew  she  was  beautiful,  and 
that  men  and  boys  were  apt  to  go  wild  about  her,  but  she  did 
not  care.  They  must  not  be  so  silly,  she  thought.  She  did  not 
attempt  to  attract  them  in  any  way.  On  the  contrary,  she 
avoided  every  occasion  of  possible  provocation.  Her  mother 
had  told  her  plainly  how  susceptible  men  were,  how  little  their 
promises  meant,  how  careful  she  must  be  of  her  looks  and  actions. 
In  consequence,  she  went  her  way  as  gaily  and  yet  as  inoffensively 
as  she  could,  trying  to  avoid  the  sadness  of  entrancing  anyone 
hopelessly  and  wondering  what  her  career  was  to  be.  Then 
Eugene  appeared. 

With  his  arrival,  Suzanne  had  almost  unconsciously  entered 
upon  a  new  phase  of  her  existence.  She  had  seen  all  sorts  of  men 
in  society,  but  those  who  were  exclusively  social  were  exceedingly 
wearisome  to  her.  She  had  heard  her  mother  say  that  it  was  an 
important  thing  to  marry  money  and  some  man  of  high  social 
standing,  but  who  this  man  was  to  be  and  what  he  was  to  be 
like  she  did  not  know.  She  did  not  look  upon  the  typical  so- 
ciety men  she  had  encountered  as  answering  suitably  to  the 
term  high.  She  had  seen  some  celebrated  wealthy  men  of  in- 
fluential families,  but  they  did  not  appear  to  her  really  human 
enough  to  be  considered.  Most  of  them  were  cold,  self-opinion- 
ated, ultra-artificial  to  her  easy,  poetic  spirit.  In  the  realms  of 
real  distinction  were  many  men  whom  the  papers  constantly 
talked  about,  financiers,  politicians,  authors,  editors,  scientists, 
some  of  whom  were  in  society,  she  understood,  but  most  of  whom 
were  not.  She  had  met  a  few  of  them  as  a  girl  might.  Most  of 
those  she  met,  or  saw,  were  old  and  cold  and  paid  no  attention 
to  her  whatever.  Eugene  had  appeared  trailing  an  atmosphere 
of  distinction  and  acknowledged  ability  and  he  was  young.  He 
was  good  looking,  too — laughing  and  gay.  It  seemed  almost  im- 
possible at  first  to  her  that  one  so  young  and  smiling  should  be 
so  able,  as  her  mother  said.  Afterwards,  when  she  came  to 
know  him,  she  began  to  feel  that  he  was  more  than  able;  that 
he  could  do  anything  he  pleased.  She  had  visited  him  once  in 
his  office,  accompanied  by  her  mother,  and  she  had  been  vastly 


THE    "GENIUS"  545 

impressed  by  the  great  building,  its  artistic  finish,  Eugene's 
palatial  surroundings.  Surely  he  was  the  most  remarkable  young 
man  she  had  ever  known.  Then  came  his  incandescent  atten- 
tions to  her,  his  glowing,  radiant  presence  and  then 

Eugene  speculated  deeply  on  how  he  should  proceed.  All  at 
once,  after  this  night,  the  whole  problem  of  his  life  came  be- 
fore him.  He  was  married ;  he  was  highly  placed  socially,  better 
than  he  had  ever  been  before.  He  was  connected  closely  with 
Colfax,  so  closely  that  he  feared  him,  for  Colfax,  in  spite  of 
certain  emotional  vagaries  of  which  Eugene  knew,  was  intensely 
conventional.  Whatever  he  did  was  managed  in  the  most  off- 
hand way  and  with  no  intention  of  allowing  his  home  life  to 
be  affected  or  disrupted.  Winfield,  whom  also  Mrs.  Dale 
knew,  was  also  conventional  to  outward  appearances.  He  had 
a  mistress,  but  she  was  held  tightly  in  check,  he  understood. 
Eugene  had  seen  her  at  the  new  casino,  or  a  portion  of  it,  the 
East  Wing,  recently  erected  at  Blue  Sea,  and  he  had  been  greatly 
impressed  with  her  beauty.  She  was  smart,  daring,  dashing. 
Eugene  looked  at  her  then,  wondering  if  the  time  would  ever 
come  when  he  could  dare  an  intimacy  of  that  character.  So 
many  married  men  did.  Would  he  ever  attempt  it  and  suc- 
ceed? 

Now  that  he  had  met  Suzanne,  however,  he  had  a  different 
notion  of  all  this,  and  it  had  come  over  him  all  at  once.  Here- 
tofore in  his  dreams,  he  had  fancied  he  might  strike  up  an  emo- 
tional relationship  somewhere  which  would  be  something  like 
Winfield's  towards  Miss  De  Kalb,  as  she  was  known,  and  so 
satisfy  the  weary  longing  that  was  in  him  for  something  new 
and  delightful  in  the  way  of  a  sympathetic  relationship  with 
beauty.  Since  seeing  Suzanne,  he  wanted  nothing  of  this,  but 
only  some  readjustment  or  rearrangement  of  his  life  whereby  he 
could  have  Suzanne  and  Suzanne  only.  Suzanne!  Suzanne! 
Oh,  that  dream  of  beauty.  How  was  he  to  obtain  her,  how  free 
his  life  of  all  save  a  beautiful  relationship  with  her?  He  could 
live  with  her  forever  and  ever.  He  could,  he  could!  Oh,  this 
vision,  this  dream! 

It  was  the  Sunday  following  the  dance  that  Suzanne  and 
Eugene  managed  to  devise  another  day  together,  which,  though, 
it  was  one  of  those  semi-accidental,  semi-voiceless,  but  neverthe- 
less not  wholly  thoughtless  coincidences  which  sometimes  come 
about  without  being  wholly  agreed  upon  or  understood  in  the 
beginning,  was  nevertheless  seized  upon  by  them,  accepted  silently 
and  semi-consciously,  semi-unconsciously  worked  out  together. 
Had  they  not  been  very  strongly  drawn  to  each  other  by  now, 


546  THE    "GENIUS'' 

this  would  not  have  happened  at  all.  But  they  enjoyed  it  none 
the  less.  To  begin  with,  Mrs.  Dale  was  suffering  from  a  sick 
headache  the  morning  after.  In  the  next  place,  Kinroy  sug- 
gested to  his  friends  to  go  for  a  lark  to  South  Beach,  which  was 
one  of  the  poorest  and  scrubbiest  of  all  the  beaches  on  Staten 
Island.  In  the  next  place,  Mrs.  Dale  suggested  that  Suzanne 
be  allowed  to  go  and  that  perhaps  Eugene  would  be  amused. 
She  rather  trusted  him  as  a  guide  and  mentor. 

Eugene  said  calmly  that  he  did  not  object.  He  was  eager 
to  be  anywhere  alone  with  Suzanne,  and  he  fancied  that  some 
opportunity  would  present  itself  whereby  once  they  were  there, 
they  could  be  together,  but  he  did  not  want  to  show  it.  Once 
more  the  car  was  called  and  they  departed,  being  let  off  at 
one  end  of  a  silly  panorama  which  stretched  its  shabby  length 
for  a  mile  along  the  shore.  The  chauffeur  took  the  car  back  to 
the  house,  it  being  agreed  that  they  could  reach  him  by  phone. 
The  party  started  down  the  plank  walk,  but  almost  immediately, 
because  of  different  interests,  divided.  Eugene  and  Suzanne 
Stopped  to  shoot  at  a  shooting  gallery.  Next  they  stopped  at  a 
cane  rack  to  ring  canes.  Anything  was  delightful  to  Eugene 
which  gave  him  an  opportunity  to  observe  his  inamorata,  to 
see  her  pretty  face,  her  smile,  and  to  hear  her  heavenly  voice. 
She  rung  a  cane  for  him.  Every  gesture  of  hers  was  perfec- 
tion; every  look  a  thrill  of  delight.  He  was  walking  in  some 
elysian  realm  which  had  nothing  to  do  with  the  tawdry  evidence 
of  life  about  him. 

They  followed  the  boardwalk  southward,  after  a  ride  in  the 
Devil's  Whirlpool,  for  by  now  Suzanne  was  caught  in  the 
persuasive  subtlety  of  his  emotion  and  could  no  more  do  as  her 
honest  judgment  would  have  dictated  than  she  could  have  flown. 
It  needed  some  shock,  some  discovery  to  show  her  whither  she 
was  drifting  and  this  was  absent.  They  came  to  a  new  dance 
hall,  where  a  few  servant  girls  and  their  sweethearts  were 
dancing,  and  for  a  lark  Eugene  proposed  that  they  should  enter. 
They  danced  together  again,  and  though  the  surroundings  were 
so  poor  and  the  music  wrretched,  Eugene  was  in  heaven. 

"Let's  run  away  and  go  to  the  Terra-Marine,"  he  sug- 
gested, thinking  of  a  hotel  farther  south  along  the  shore.  "It 
is  so  pleasant  there.  This  is  all  so  cheap." 

"Where  is  it?"  asked  Suzanne. 

"Oh,  about  three  miles  south  of  here.  We  could  almost 
walk  there." 

He  looked  down  the  long  hot  beach,  but  changed  his  mind. 

"I  don't  mind  this,"  said  Suzanne.     "It's  so  very  bad  that 


THE    "  GENIUS  J:  547 

it's  good,  you  know.  I  like  to  see  how  these  people  enjoy  them- 
selves." 

"But  it  is  so  bad,"  argued  Eugene.  "I  wish  I  had  your  live, 
healthy  attitude  toward  things.  Still  we  won't  go  if  you  don't 
want  to." 

Suzanne  paused,  thinking.  Should  she  run  away  with  him? 
The  others  would  be  looking  for  them.  No  doubt  they  were 
already  wondering  where  they  had  gone.  Still  it  didn't  make  so 
much  difference.  Her  mother  trusted  her  with  Eugene.  They 
could  go. 

"Well,"  she  said  finally,  "I  don't  care.     Let's." 

"What  will  the  others  think?"  he  said  doubtfully. 

"Oh,  they  won't  mind,"  she  said.  "When  they're  ready, 
they'll  call  the  car.  They  know  that  I  am  with  you.  They 
know  that  I  can  get  the  car  when  I  want  it.  Mama  won't 
mind." 

Eugene  led  the  way  back  to  a  train  which  ran  to  Hugenot, 
their  destination.  He  was  beside  himself  with  the  idea  of  a 
day  all  alone  with  Suzanne.  He  did  not  stay  to  consider  or 
give  ear  to  a  thought  concerning  Angela  at  home  or  how  Mrs. 
Dale  would  view  it.  Nothing  would  come  of  it.  It  was  not  an 
outrageous  adventure.  They  took  the  train  south,  and  in  a 
little  while  were  in  another  world,  on  the  veranda  of  a  hotel 
that  overlooked  the  sea.  There  were  numerous  autos  of  idlers 
like  themselves  in  a  court  before  the  hotel.  There  was  a  great 
grassy  lawn  with  swings  covered  by  striped  awnings  of  red  and 
blue  and  green,  and  beyond  that  a  pier  with  many  little  white 
launches  anchored  near.  The  sea  was  as  smooth  as  glass  and 
great  steamers  rode  in  the  distance  trailing  lovely  plumes  of 
smoke.  The  sun  was  blazing  hot,  brilliant,  but  here  on  the 
cool  porch  waiters  were  serving  pleasure  lovers  with  food  and 
drink.  A  quartette  of  negroes  were  singing.  Suzanne  and 
Eugene  seated  themselves  in  rockers  at  first  to  view  the  per- 
fect day  and  later  went  down  and  sat  in  a  swing.  Unthink- 
ingly, without  words,  these  two  were  gradually  gravitating  to- 
ward each  other  under  some  spell  which  had  no  relationship  to 
everyday  life.  Suzanne  looked  at  him  in  the  double  seated  swing 
where  they  sat  facing  each  other  and  they  smiled  or  jested  aim- 
lessly, voicing  nothing  of  all  the  upward  welling  deep  that  was 
stirring  within. 

"Was  there  ever  such  a  day?"  said  Eugene  finally,  and  in  a 
voice  that  was  filled  with  extreme  yearning.  "See  that  steamer 
out  there.  It  looks  like  a  little  toy." 

"Yes,"   said    Suzanne  with   a   little   gasp.     She   inhaled   her 


548  THE   "GEN  I  US' ' 

breath  as  she  pronounced  this  word  which  gave  it  an  airy  breath- 
lessness  which  had  a  touch  of  demure  pathos  in  it.  "Oh,  it  is 
perfect." 

"Your  hair,"  he  said.  "You  don't  know  how  nice  you  look. 
You  fit  this  scene  exactly." 

"Don't  speak  of  me,"  she  pleaded.  "I  look  so  tousled.  The 
wind  in  the  train  blew  my  hair  so  I  ought  to  go  the  ladies'  dress- 
ing room  and  hunt  up  a  maid." 

"Stay  here,"  said  Eugene.     "Don't  go.     It  is  all  so  lovely." 

"I  won't  now.  I  wish  we  might  always  sit  here.  You,  just 
as  you  are  there,  and  I  here." 

"Did  you  ever  read  the  "Ode  on  a  Grecian  Urn'  ?" 

"Yes." 

"Do  you  remember  the  lines  'Fair  youth,  beneath  the  trees, 
thou  canst  not  leave'  ?" 

"Yes,  yes,"  she  answered  ecstatically. 

"  'Bold  lover,  never,  never  canst  thou  kiss 

Though  winning  near  the  goal — yet,  do  not  grieve; 
She  cannot  fade,  though  thou  hast  not  thy  bliss, 
For  ever  wilt  thou  love  and  she  be  fair.' " 

"Don't,  don't,"  she  pleaded. 

He  understood.  The  pathos  of  that  great  thought  was  too 
much  for  her.  It  hurt  her  as  it  did  him.  What  a  mind ! 

They  rocked  and  swung  idly,  he  pushing  with  his  feet  at  times 
in  which  labor  she  joined  him.  They  strolled  up  the  beach  and 
sat  down  on  a  green  clump  of  grass  overlooking  the  sea.  Idlers 
approached  and  passed.  He  laid  his  arm  to  her  waist  and  held 
her  hand,  but  something  in  her  mood  stayed  him  from  any  ex- 
pression. Through  dinner  at  the  hotel  it  was  the  same  and 
on  the  way  to  the  train,  for  she  wanted  to  walk  through  the 
dark.  Under  some  tall  trees,  though,  in  the  rich  moonlight  pre- 
vailing, he  pressed  her  hand. 

"Oh,  Suzanne,"  he  said. 

"No,  no,"  she  breathed,  drawing  back. 

"Oh,  Suzanne,"  he  repeated,  "may  I  tell  you?" 

"No,  no,"  she  answered.  "Don't  speak  to  me.  Please  don't. 
Let's  just  walk.  You  and  I." 

He  hushed,  for  her  voice,  though  sad  and  fearsome,  was 
imperious.  He  could  not  do  less  than  obey  this  mood. 

They  went  to  a  little  country  farmhouse  which  ranged  along 
the  track  in  lieu  of  a  depot,  and  sang  a  quaint  air  from  some 
old-time  comic  opera. 


THE    "GENIUS'  549 

"Do  you  remember  the  first  time  when  you  came  to  play  tennis 
with  me?"  he  asked. 

"Yes." 

"Do  you  know  I  felt  a  strange  vibration  before  your  coming 
and  all  during  your  playing.  Did  you?" 

"Yes." 

"What  is  that,  Suzanne?" 

"I  don't  know." 

"Don't  you  want  to  know?" 

"No,  no,  Mr.  Witla,  not  now." 

"Mr.  Witla?" 

"It  must  be  so." 

"Oh,  Suzanne!" 

"Let's  just  think,"  she  pleaded,  "it  is  so  beautiful." 

They  came  to  a  station  near  Daleview,  and  walked  over.  On 
the  way  he  slipped  his  arm  about  her  waist,  but,  oh,  so  lightly. 

"Suzanne,"  he  asked,  with  a  terrible  yearning  ache  in  his 
heart,  "do  you  blame  me?  Can  you?" 

"Don't  ask  me,"  she  pleaded,  "not  now.     No,  no." 

He  tried  to  press  her  a  little  more  closely. 

"Not  now.     I  don't  blame  you." 

He  stopped  as  they  neared  the  lawn  and  entered  the  house 
with  a  jesting  air.  Explanations  about  mixing  in  the  crowd 
and  getting  lost  were  easy.  Mrs.  Dale  smiled  good  naturedly. 
Suzanne  went  to  her  room. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

HAVING  involved  himself  thus  far,  seized  upon  and  made 
his  own  this  perfect  flower  of  life,  Eugene  had  but  one 
thought,  and  that  was  to  retain  it.  Now,  of  a  sudden,  had 
fallen  from  him  all  the  weariness  of  years.  To  be  in  love  again. 
To  be  involved  in  such  a  love,  so  wonderful,  so  perfect,  so 
exquisite,  it  did  not  seem  that  life  could  really  be  so  gracious 
as  to  have  yielded  him  so  much.  What  did  it  all  mean,  his 
upward  rise  during  all  these  years?  There  had  been  seemingly 
but  one  triumph  after  another  since  the  bitter  days  in  River- 
wood  and  after.  The  World,  Summerfield's,  The  Kalvin  Com- 
pany, The  United  Magazine  Corporation,  Winfield,  his  beau- 
tiful apartment  on  the  drive.  Surely  the  gods  were  good.  What 
did  they  mean?  To  give  him  fame,  fortune  and  Suzanne  into 
the  bargain?  Could  such  a  thing  really  be?  How  could  it  be 
worked  out?  Would  fate  conspire  and  assist  him  so  that  he 
could  be  free  of  Angela — or 

The  thought  of  Angela  to  him  in  these  days  was  a  great 
pain.  At  bottom  Eugene  really  did  not  dislike  her,  he  never 
had.  Years  of  living  with  her  had  produced  an  understanding 
and  a  relationship  as  strong  and  as  keen  as  it  might  well  be  in 
some  respects.  Angela  had  always  fancied  since  the  Riverwood 
days  that  she  really  did  not  love  Eugene  truly  any  more — could 
not,  that  he  was  too  self-centered  and  selfish;  but  this  on  her 
part  was  more  of  an  illusion  than  a  reality.  She  did  care 
for  him  in  an  unselfish  way  from  one  point  of  view,  in  that  she 
would  sacrifice  everything  to  his  interests.  From  another  point 
of  view  it  was  wholly  selfish,  for  she  wanted  him  to  sacrifice 
everything  for  her  in  return.  This  he  was  not  willing  to  do 
and  had  never  been.  He  considered  that  his  life  was  a  larger 
thing  than  could  be  encompassed  by  any  single  matrimonial 
relationship.  He  wanted  freedom  of  action  and  companionship, 
but  he  was  afraid  of  Angela,  afraid  of  society,  in  a  way  afraid 
of  himself  and  what  positive  liberty  might  do  to  him.  He 
felt  sorry  for  Angela — for  the  intense  suffering  she  would  en- 
dure if  he  forced  her  in  some  way  to  release  him — and  at  the 
same  time  he  felt  sorry  for  himself.  The  lure  of  beauty  had 
never  for  one  moment  during  all  these  years  of  upward  mount- 
ing effort  been  stilled. 

It  is  curious  how  things  seem  to  conspire  at  times  to  pro- 

550 


THE    "GENIUS'  551 

duce  a  climax.  One  would  think  that  tragedies  like  plants 
and  flowers  are  planted  as  seeds  and  grow  by  various  means  and 
aids  to  a  terrible  maturity.  Roses  of  hell  are  some  lives,  and 
they  shine  with  all  the  lustre  of  infernal  fires. 

In  the  first  place  Eugene  now  began  to  neglect  his  office 
work  thoroughly,  for  he  could  not  fix  his  mind  upon  it  any 
more  than  he  could  upon  the  affairs  of  the  Sea  Island  Company, 
or  upon  his  own  home  and  Angela's  illness.  The  morning  after 
his  South  Beach  experience  with  Suzanne  and  her  curious  reti- 
cence, he  saw  her  for  a  little  while  upon  the  veranda  of  Dale- 
view.  She  was  not  seemingly  depressed,  or  at  least,  not  noticeably 
so,  and  yet  there  was  a  gravity  about  her  which  indicated  that  a 
marked  impression  of  some  kind  had  been  made  upon  her  soul. 
She  looked  at  him  with  wide  frank  eyes  as  she  came  out  to  him 
purposely  to  tell  him  that  she  was  going  with  her  mother  and  some 
friends  to  Tarrytown  for  the  day. 

"I  have  to  go,"  she  said.  "Mamma  has  arranged  it  by 
phone." 

"Then  I  won't  see  you  any  more  here?" 

"No." 

"Do  you  love  me,  Suzanne?" 

"Oh,  yes,  yes,"  she  declared,  and  walked  wearily  to  an  angle 
of  the  wall  where  they  could  not  be  seen. 

He   followed   her   quickly,   cautiously. 

"Kiss  me,"  he  said,  and  she  put  her  lips  to  his  in  a  dis- 
traught frightened  way.  Then  she  turned  and  walked  briskly 
off  and  he  admired  the  robust  swinging  of  her  body.  She  was 
not  tall,  like  himself,  or  small  like  Angela,  but  middle  sized, 
full  bodied,  vigorous.  He  imagined  now  that  she  had  a  power- 
ful soul  in  her,  capable  of  great  things,  full  of  courage  and 
strength.  Once  she  was  a  little  older,  she  would  be  very  force- 
ful and  full  of  strong,  direct  thought. 

He  did  not  see  her  again  for  nearly  ten  days,  and  by  that 
time  he  was  nearly  desperate.  He  was  wondering  all  the  time 
how  he  was  to  arrange  this.  He  could  not  go  on  in  this  hap- 
hazard way,  seeing  her  occasionally.  Why  she  might  leave  town 
for  the  fall  a  little  later  and  then  what  would  he  do?  If  her 
mother  heard  she  would  take  her  off  to  Europe  and  then  would 
Suzanne  forget?  What  a  tragedy  that  would  be!  No,  before 
that  should  happen,  he  would  run  away  with  her.  He  would 
realize  all  his  investments  and  get  away.  He  could  not  live 
without  her.  He  must  have  her  at  any  cost.  What  did  the  United 
Magazine  Corporation  amount  to,  anyway?  He  was  tired  of 
that  work.  Angela  might  have  the  Sea  Island  Realty  Com- 


552  THE    "GENIUS" 

pany's  stock,  if  he  could  not  dispose  of  it  advantageously,  or  if 
he  could,  he  would  make  provision  for  her  out  of  what  he 
should  receive.  He  had  some  ready  money — a  few  thousand  dol- 
lars. This  and  his  art — he  could  still  paint — would  sustain  them. 
He  would  go  to  England  with  Suzanne,  or  to  France.  They 
would  be  happy  if  she  really  loved  him  and  he  thought  she  did. 
All  this  old  life  could  go  its  way.  It  was  a  dreary  thing, 
anyhow,  without  love.  These  were  his  first  thoughts. 

Later,  he  came  to  have  different  ones,  but  this  was  after  he 
had  talked  to  Suzanne  again.  It  was  a  difficult  matter  to  ar- 
range. In  a  fit  of  desperation  he  called  up  Daleview  one 
day,  and  asked  if  Miss  Suzanne  Dale  was  there.  A  servant 
answered,  and  in  answer  to  the  "who  shall  I  say"  he  gave  the 
name  of  a  young  man  that  he  knew  Suzanne  knew.  When  she 
answered  he  said:  "Listen,  Suzanne!  Can  you  hear  very 
well?" 

"Yes." 

"Do  you  recognize  my  voice?" 

"Yes." 

"Please  don't  pronounce  my  name,  will  you?" 

"No." 

"Suzanne,  I  am  crazy  to  see  you.  It  has  been  ten  days  now. 
Are  you  going  to  be  in  town  long?" 

"I  don't  know.     I  think  so." 

"If  anyone  comes  near  you,  Suzanne,  simply  hang  up  the  re- 
ceiver, and  I  will  understand." 

"YeS*" 

"If  I  came  anywhere  near  your  house  in  a  car,  could  you 

come  out  and  see  me?" 

"I  don't  know." 

"Oh,   Suzanne!" 

"I'm  not  sure.     I'll  try.     What  time?" 

"Do  you  know  where  the  old  fort  road  is,  at  Crystal  Lake, 
just  below  you?" 

!!Yes-" 

"Do  you  know  where  the  ice  house  is  near  the  road  there?" 

"Yes." 

"Could  you  come  there?" 

"What  time?" 

"At  eleven  tomorrow  morning  or  two  this  afternoon  or  three." 

"I  might  at  two  today." 

"Oh,  thank  you  for  that.     I'll  wait  for  you,  anyhow." 

"All  right.     Good-bye." 

And  she  hung  up  the  receiver. 


THE    "GENIUS"  553 

Eugene  rejoiced  at  the  fortunate  outcome  of  this  effort  with- 
out thinking  at  first  of  the  capable  manner  in  which  she  had 
handled  the  situation.  Truly  he  said  afterwards  she  must  be 
very  courageous  to  think  so  directly  and  act  so  quickly,  for  it 
must  have  been  very  trying  to  her.  This  love  of  his  was  so  new. 
Her  position  was  so  very  difficult.  And  yet,  on  this  first  call 
when  she  had  been  suddenly  put  in  touch  with  him,  she  had 
shown  no  signs  of  trepidation.  Her  voice  had  been  firm  and 
even,  much  more  so  than  his,  for  he  was  nervously  excited.  She 
had  taken  in  the  situation  at  once  and  fallen  into  the  ruse  quite 
readily.  Was  she  as  simple  as  she  seemed?  Yes  and  no.  She 
was  simply  capable,  he  thought  and  her  capability  had  acted 
through  her  simplicity  instantly. 

At  two  the  same  day  Eugene  was  there.  He  gave  as  an 
excuse  to  his  secretary  that  he  was  going  out  for  a  business  con- 
ference with  a  well-known  author  whose  book  he  wished  to  ob- 
tain, and,  calling  a  closed  auto,  but  one  not  his  own,  journeyed 
to  the  rendezvous.  He  asked  the  man  to  drive  down  the  road, 
making  runs  of  half  a  mile  to  and  fro  while  he  sat  in  the 
shade  of  a  clump  of  trees  out  of  view  of  the  road.  Presently 
Suzanne  came,  bright  and  fresh  as  the  morning,  beautiful  in  a 
light  purple  walking  costume  of  masterly  design.  She  had  pn  a 
large  soft  brimmed  hat  with  long  feathers  of  the  same  shade 
which  became  her  exquisitely.  She  walked  with  an  air  of  grace 
and  freedom,  and  yet  when  he  looked  into  her  eyes,  he  saw  a 
touch  of  trouble  there. 

"At  last?"  he  said  signaling  her  and  smiling.  "Come  in  here. 
My  car  is  just  up  the  road.  Don't  you  think  we  had  better  get 
in?  It's  closed.  We  might  be  seen.  How  long  can  you  stay?" 

He  took  her  in  his  arms  and  kissed  her  eagerly  while  she  ex- 
plained that  she  could  not  stay  long.  She  had  said  she  was 
going  to  the  library,  which  her  mother  had  endowed,  for  a 
book.  She  must  be  there  by  half  past  three  or  four  at  the 
least. 

"Oh,  we  can  talk  a  great  deal  by  then,"  he  said  gaily.  "Here 
comes  the  car.  Let's  get  in." 

He  looked  cautiously  about,  hailed  it,  and  they  stepped  in 
quickly  as  it  drew  up. 

"Perth  Amboy,"  said  Eugene,  and  they  were  off  at  high 
speed. 

Once  in  the  car  all  was  perfect,  for  they  could  not  be  seen. 
He  drew  the  shades  partially  and  took  her  in  his  arms. 

"Oh,  Suzanne,"  he  said,  "how  long  it  has  seemed.  How- 
very  long.  Do  you  love  me?" 


554  THE    "GENIUS' 

"Yes,  you  know  I  do." 

"Suzanne,  how  shall  we  arrange  this?  Are  you  going  away 
soon?  I  must  see  you  oftener." 

"I  don't  know,"  she  said.  "I  don't  know  what  mama 
is  thinking  of  doing.  I  know  she  wants  to  go  up  to  Lenox  in 
the  fall." 

"Oh,  Pshaw!"  commented  Eugene  wearily. 

"Listen,  Mr.  Witla,"  said  Suzanne  thoughtfully.  "You 
know  we  are  running  a  terrible  risk.  What  if  Mrs.  Witla 
should  find  out,  or  mama?  It  would  be  terrible." 

"I  know  it,"  said  Eugene.  "I  suppose  I  ought  not  to  be 
acting  in  this  way.  But,  oh,  Suzanne,  I  am  wild  about  you. 
I  am  not  myself  any  longer.  I  don't  know  what  I  am.  I  only 
know  that  I  love  you,  love  you,  love  you!" 

He  gathered  her  in  his  arms  and  kissed  her  ecstatically.  "How 
sweet  you  look.  How  beautiful  you  are.  Oh,  flower  face! 
Myrtle  Bloom!  Angel  Eyes!  Divine  Fire!"  He  hugged  her  in 
a  long  silent  embrace,  the  while  the  car  sped  on. 

"But  what  about  us?"  she  asked,  wide-eyed.  "You  know  we 
are  running  a  terrible  risk.  I  was  just  thinking  this  morning 
when  you  called  me  up.  It's  dangerous,  you  know." 

"Are  you  becoming  sorry,  Suzanne?" 

"No." 

"Do  you  love  me?" 

"You  know  I  do." 

"Then  you  will  help  me  figure  this  out?" 

"I  want  to.  But  listen,  Mr.  Witla,  now  listen  to  me.  I 
want  to  tell  you  something."  She  was  very  solemn  and  quaint 
and  sweet  in  this  mood. 

"I  will  listen  to  anything,  baby  mine,  but  don't  call  me  Mr. 
Witla.  Call  me  Eugene,  will  you?" 

"Well,  now,  listen  to  me,  Mr. — Mr. — Eugene." 

"Not  Mr.  Eugene,  just  Eugene.  Now  say  it.  Eugene," 
he  quoted  his  own  name  to  her. 

"Now  listen  to  me,  Mr. — now,  listen  to  me,  Eugene,"  she  at 
last  forced  herself  to  say,  and  Eugene  stopped  her  lips  with  his 
mouth. 

'There,"  he  said. 

"Now  listen  to  me,"  she  went  on  urgently,  "you  know  I  am 
afraid  mama  will  be  terribly  angry  if  she  finds  this  out." 

"Oh,  will  she?"  interrupted  Eugene  jocosely. 

Suzanne  paid  no  attention  to  him. 

"We  have  to  be  very  careful.  She  likes  you  so  much  now 
that  if  she  doesn't  come  across  anything  direct,  she  will  never 


THE    "GENIUS"  555 

think  of  anything.  She  was  talking  about  you  only  this  morn- 
ing." 

"What  was  she  saying  ?" 

"Oh,  what  a  nice  man  you  are,  and  how  able  you  are." 

"Oh,  nothing  like  that,"  replied  Eugene  jestingly. 

"Yes,  she  did.  And  I  think  Mrs.  Witla  likes  me.  I  can 
meet  you  sometimes  when  I'm  there,  but  we  must  be  so  careful. 
I  mustn't  stay  out  long  today.  I  want  to  think  things  out, 
too.  You  know  I'm  having  a  real  hard  time  thinking  about 
this." 

Eugene  smiled.  Her  innocence  was  so  delightful  to  him,  so 
nai've. 

"What  do  you  mean  by  thinking  things  out,  Suzanne?" 
asked  Eugene  curiously.  He  was  interested  in  the  workings 
of  her  young  mind,  which  seemed  so  fresh  and  wonderful  to 
him.  It  was  so  delightful  to  find  this  paragon  of  beauty  so  re- 
sponsive, so  affectionate  and  helpful  and  withal  so  thoughtful. 
She  was  somewhat  like  a  delightful  toy  to  him,  and  he  held  her 
as  reverently  in  awe  as  though  she  were  a  priceless  vase. 

"You  know  I  want  to  think  what  I'm  doing.  I  have  to.  It 
seems  so  terrible  to  me  at  times  and  yet  you  know,  you 
know " 

"I  know  what?"  he  asked,  when  she  paused. 

"I  don't  know  why  I  shouldn't  if  I  want  to — if  I  love  you." 

Eugene  looked  at  her  curiously.  This  attempt  at  analysis 
of  life,  particularly  in  relation  to  so  trying  and  daring  a  situa- 
tion as  this,  astonished  him.  He  had  fancied  Suzanne  more  or 
less  thoughtless  and  harmless  as  yet,  big  potentially,  but  uncertain 
and  vague.  Here  she  was  thinking  about  this  most  difficult 
problem  almost  more  directly  than  he  was  and  apparently  with 
more  courage.  He  was  astounded,  but  more  than  that,  in- 
tensely interested.  What  had  become  of  her  terrific  fright  of 
ten  days  before?  What  wras  it  she  was  thinking  about  ex- 
actly? 

"What  a  curious  girl  you  are,"  he  said. 

"Why  am  I?"  she  asked. 

"Because  you  are.  I  didn't  think  you  could  think  so  keenly 
yet.  I  thought  you  would  some  day.  But,  how  have  you  rea- 
soned this  out?" 

"Did  you  ever  read  *Anna  Karenina'?"  she  asked  him  medi- 
tatively. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  wondering  that  she  should  have  read  it  at 
her  age. 

"What  did  you  think  of  that?" 


556  THE    "GENIUS" 

"Oh,  it  shows  what  happens,  as  a  rule,  when  you  fly  in  the 
face  of  convention,"  he  said  easily,  wondering  at  the  ability  of 
her  brain. 

"Do  you  think  things  must  happen  that  way?" 

"No,  I  don't  think  they  must  happen  that  way.  There  are 
lots  of  cases  where  people  do  go  against  the  conventions  and 
succeed.  I  don't  know.  It  appears  to  be  all  a  matter  of  time 
and  chance.  Some  do  and  some  don't.  If  you  are  strong 
enough  or  clever  enough  to  'get  away  with  it,'  as  they  say,  you 
will.  If  you  aren't,  you  won't.  What  makes  you  ask?" 

"Well,"  she  said,  pausing,  her  lips  parted,  her  eyes  fixed  on 
the  floor,  "I  was  thinking  that  it  needn't  necessarily  be  like 
that,  do  you  think?  It  could  be  different?" 

"Yes,  it  could  be,"  he  said  thoughtfully,  wondering  if  it  really 
could. 

"Because  if  it  couldn't,"  she  went  on,  "the  price  would  be 
too  high.  It  isn't  worth  while." 

"You  mean,  you  mean,"  he  said,  looking  at  her,  "that  you 
would."  He  was  thinking  that  she  was  deliberately  contemplat- 
ing making  a  sacrifice  of  herself  for  him.  Something  in  her 
thoughtful,  self-debating,  meditative  manner  made  him  think  so. 

Suzanne  looked  out  of  the  window  and  slowly  nodded  her 
head.  "Yes,"  she  said,  solemnly,  "if  it  could  be  arranged. 
Why  not?  I  don't  see  why." 

Her  face  was  a  perfect  blossom  of  beauty,  as  she  spoke.  Eu- 
gene wondered  whether  he  was  waking  or  sleeping.  Suzanne 
reasoning  so!  Suzanne  reading  "Anna  Karenina"  and  philoso- 
phizing so!  Basing  a  course  of  action  on  theorizing  in  connec- 
tion with  books  and  life,  and  in  the  face  of  such  terrible  evi- 
dence as  "Anna  Karenina"  presented  to  the  contrary  of  this 
proposition.  Would  wonders  ever  cease? 

"You  know,"  she  said  after  a  time,  "I  think  mama 
wouldn't  mind,  Eugene.  She  likes  you.  I've  heard  her  say 
so  lots  of  times.  Besides  I've  heard  her  talk  this  way  about 
other  people.  She  thinks  people  oughtn't  to  marry  unless  they 
love  each  other  very  much.  I  don't  think  she  thinks  it's  neces- 
sary for  people  to  marry  at  all  unless  they  want  to.  We  might 
live  together  if  we  wished,  you  know." 

Eugene  himself  had  heard  Mrs.  Dale  question  the  marriage 
system,  but  only  in  a  philosophic  way.  He  did  not  take  much 
stock  in  her  social  maunderings.  He  did  not  know  what  she 
might  be  privately  saying  to  Suzanne,  but  he  did  not  believe  it 
could  be  very  radical,  or  at  least  seriously  so. 

"Don't  you  take  any  stock  in  what  your  mother  says,   Su- 


THE    "GENIUS"  557 

zanne,"  he  observed,  studying  her  pretty  face.  "She  doesn't 
mean  it,  at  least,  she  doesn't  mean  it  as  far  as  you  are  con- 
cerned. She's  merely  talking.  If  she  thought  anything  were 
going  to  happen  to  you,  she'd  change  her  mind  pretty  quick." 

"No,  I  don't  think  so,"  replied  Suzanne  thoughtfully.  "You 
know,  I  think  I  know  mama  better  than  she  knows  herself. 
She  always  talks  of  me  as  a  little  girl,  but  I  can  rule  her  in 
lots  of  things.  I've  done  it." 

Eugene  stared  at  Suzanne  in  amazement.  He  could  scarcely 
believe  his  ears.  She  was  beginning  so  early  to  think  so  deeply 
on  the  social  and  executive  sides  of  life.  Why  should  her  mind 
be  trying  to  dominate  her  mother's? 

"Suzanne,"  he  observed,  "you  must  be  careful  what  you  do  or 
say.  Don't  rush  into  talking  of  this  pellmell.  It's  dangerous. 
I  love  you,  but  we  shall  have  to  go  slow.  If  Mrs.  Witla 
should  learn  of  this,  she  would  be  crazy.  If  your  mother  should 
suspect,  she  would  take  you  away  to  Europe  somewhere,  very 
likely.  Then  I  wouldn't  get  to  see  you  at  all." 

"Oh,  no,  she  wouldn't,"  replied  Suzanne  determinedly.  "You 
know,  I  know  mama  better  than  you  think  I  do.  I  can  rule 
her,  I  tell  you.  I  know  I  can.  I've  done  it." 

She  tossed  her  head  in  an  exquisitely  pretty  way  which  upset 
Eugene's  reasoning  faculties.  He  could  not  think  and  look  at 
her. 

"Suzanne,"  he  said,  drawing  her  to  him.  "You  are  exquisite, 
extreme,  the  last  word  in  womanhood  for  me.  To  think  of  your 
reasoning  so — you,  Suzanne." 

"Why,  why,"  she  asked,  with  pretty  parted  lips  and  uplifted 
eyebrows,  "why  shouldn't  I  think?" 

"Oh,  yes,  certainly,  we  all  do,  but  not  so  deeply,  necessarily, 
Flower  Face." 

"Well,  we  must  think  now,"  she  said  simply. 

"Yes,  we  must  think  now,"  he  replied;  "would  you  really 
share  a  studio  with  me  if  I  were  to  take  one?  I  don't  know 
of  any  other  way  quite  at  present." 

"I  would,  if  I  knew  how  to  manage  it,"  she  replied.  "Mama 
is  queer.  She's  so  watchful.  She  thinks  I'm  a  child  and  you 
know  I  am  not  at  all.  I  don't  understand  mama.  She 
talks  one  thing  and  does  another.  I  would  rather  do  and  not 
talk.  Don't  you  think  so?"  He  stared.  "Still,  I  think  I 
can  fix  it.  Leave  it  to  me." 

"And  if  you  can  you'll  come  to  me?" 

"Oh,   yes,   yes,"   exclaimed   Suzanne   ecstatically,   turning   to 


558  THE    "GENIUS" 

him  all  at  once  and  catching  his  face  between  her  hands.  "Oh !" 
— she  looked  into  his  eyes  and  dreamed. 

"But  we  must  be  careful,"  he  cautioned.  "We  musn't  do 
anything  rash." 

"I  won't,"   said    Suzanne. 

"And  I  won't,  of  course,"  he  replied. 

They  paused  again  while  he  watched  her. 

"I  might  make  friends  with  Mrs.  Witla,"  she  observed,  after 
a  time.  "She  likes  me,  doesn't  she?" 

"Yes,"  said  Eugene. 

"Mama  doesn't  object  to  my  going  up  there,  and  I  could 
let  you  know." 

"That's  all  right.  Do  that,"  said  Eugene.  "Oh,  please  do, 
if  you  can.  Did  you  notice  whose  name  I  used  today?" 

"Yes,"  she  said.  "You  know  Mr.  Witla,  Eugene,  I  thought 
you  might  call  me  up?" 

"Did  you?"  he  asked,  smiling. 

"Yes." 

"You  give  me  courage,  Suzanne,"  he  said,  drawing  close  to 
her.  "You're  so  confident,  so  apparently  carefree.  The  world 
hasn't  touched  your  spirit." 

"When  I'm  away  from  you,  though,  I'm  not  so  courageous," 
she  replied.  "I've  been  thinking  terrible  things.  I  get  fright- 
ened sometimes." 

"But  you  mustn't,  sweet,  I  need  you  so.  Oh,  how  I  need 
you." 

She  looked  at  him,  and  for  the  first  time  smoothed  his  hair 
with  her  hand. 

"You  know,  Eugene,  you're  just  like  a  boy  to  me." 

"Do  I  seem  so?"  he  asked,  comforted  greatly. 

"I  couldn't  love  you  as  I  do  if  you  weren't." 

He  drew  her  to  him  again  and  kissed  her  anew. 

"Can't  we  repeat  these  rides  every  few  days?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,  if  I'm  here,  maybe." 

"It's  all  right  to  call  you  up  if  I  use  another  name?" 

"Yes,  I  think  so." 

"Let's  choose  new  names  for  each,  so  that  we'll  know  who's 
calling.  You  shall  be  Jenny  Lind  and  I  Allan  Poe."  Then 
they  fell  to  ardent  love-making  until  the  time  came  when  they 
had  to  return.  For  him,  so  far  as  work  was  concerned,  the  after- 
noon was  gone. 


CHAPTER  IX 

THERE  followed  now  a  series  of  meetings  contrived  with 
difficulty,  fraught  with  danger,  destructive  of  his  peace  of 
mind,  of  his  recently  acquired  sense  of  moral  and  commercial 
responsibility,  of  the  sense  of  singleness  of  purpose  and  interest 
in  his  editorial  and  publishing  world,  which  had  helped  him  so 
much  recently.  The  meetings  nevertheless  were  full  of  such 
intense  bliss  for  him  that  it  seemed  as  though  he  were  a  thousand 
times  repaid  for  all  the  subtlety  and  folly  he  was  practicing. 
There  were  times  when  he  came  to  the  ice  house  in  a  hired  car, 
others  when  she  notified  him  by  phone  or  note  to  his  office  of 
times  when  she  was  coming  in  to  town  to  stay.  He  took  her  in 
his  car  one  afternoon  to  Blue  Sea  \vhen  he  was  sure  no  one  wrould 
encounter  him.  He  persuaded  Suzanne  to  carry  a  heavy  veil, 
which  could  be  adjusted  at  odd  moments.  Another  time — several, 
in  fact — she  came  to  the  apartment  in  Riverside  Drive,  osten- 
sibly to  see  how  Mrs.  Witla  was  getting  along,  but  really,  of 
course,  to  see  Eugene.  Suzanne  did  not  really  care  so  much 
for  Angela,  although  she  did  not  dislike  her.  She  thought  she 
was  an  interesting  woman,  though  perhaps  not  a  happy  mate  for 
Eugene.  The  latter  had  told  her  not  so  much  that  he  was  un- 
happy as  that  he  was  out  of  love.  He  loved  her  now,  Suzanne, 
and  only  her. 

The  problem  as  to  where  this  relationship  was  to  lead  to  was 
complicated  by  another  problem,  which  Eugene  knew  nothing 
of,  but  which  was  exceedingly  important.  For  Angela,  follow- 
ing the  career  of  Eugene  with  extreme  pleasure  and  satisfaction 
on  the  commercial  side,  and  fear  and  distrust  on  the  social  and 
emotional  sides,  had  finally  decided  to  risk  the  uncertain  outcome 
of  a  child  in  connection  with  Eugene  and  herself,  and  to  give 
him  something  which  would  steady  his  life  and  make  him  real- 
ize his  responsibilities  and  offer  him  something  gladdening  besides 
social  entertainment  and  the  lure  of  beauty  in  youth.  She  had 
never  forgotten  the  advice  which  Mrs.  Sanifore  and  her  physi- 
cian had  given  her  in  Philadelphia,  nor  had  she  ever  ceased  her 
cogitations  as  to  what  the  probable  effect  of  a  child  would  be. 
Eugene  needed  something  of  this  sort  to  balance  him.  His  posi- 
tion in  the  world  was  too  tenuous,  his  temperament  too  variable. 
A  child — a  little  girl,  she  hoped,  for  he  always  liked  little  girls 

559 


56o  THE    "GENIUS" 

and  made  much  of  them — would  quiet  him.  If  she  could  only 
have  a  little  girl  now! 

Some  two  months  before  her  illness,  while  Eugene  was  becom- 
ing, all  unsuspected  by  her,  so  frenzied  about  Suzanne,  she  had 
relaxed,  or  rather  abandoned,  her  old-time  precautions  entirely, 
and  had  recently  begun  to  suspect  that  her  fears,  or  hopes,  or  both, 
were  about  to  be  realized.  Owing  to  her  subsequent  illness  and 
its  effect  on  her  heart,  she  was  not  very  happy  now.  She  was  nat- 
urally very  uncertain  as  to  the  outcome  as  well  as  to  how  Eugene 
would  take  it.  He  had  never  expressed  a  desire  for  a  child,  but 
she  had  no  thought  of  telling  him  as  yet,  for  she  wanted  to  be  ab- 
solutely sure.  If  she  were  not  correct  in  her  suspicions,  and  got 
well,  he  would  attempt  to  dissuade  her  for  the  future.  If  she 
were,  he  could  not  help  himself.  Like  all  women  in  that  condi- 
tion, she  was  beginning  to  long  for  sympathy  and  consideration 
and  to  note  more  keenly  the  drift  of  Eugene's  mind  toward  a 
world  which  did  not  very  much  concern  her.  His  interest  in 
Suzanne  had  puzzled  her  a  little,  though  she  was  not  greatly 
troubled  about  her  because  Mrs.  Dale  appeared  to  be  so  thought- 
ful about  her  daughter.  Times  were  changing.  Eugene  had  been 
going  out  much  alone.  A  child  would  help.  It  was  high  time 
it  came. 

When  Suzanne  had  started  coming  with  her  mother,  Angela 
thought  nothing  of  it;  but  on  the  several  occasions  when  Su- 
zanne called  during  her  illness,  and  Eugene  had  been  present, 
she  felt  as  though  there  might  easily  spring  up  something  be- 
tween them.  Suzanne  was  so  charming.  Once  as  she  lay  think- 
ing after  Suzanne  had  left  the  room  to  go  into  the  studio  for  a 
few  moments,  she  heard  Eugene  jesting  with  her  and  laughing 
keenly.  Suzanne's  laugh,  or  gurgling  giggle,  was  most  infec- 
tious. It  was  so  easy,  too,  for  Eugene  to  make  her  laugh,  for 
his  type  of  jesting  was  to  her  the  essence  of  fun.  It  seemed  to 
her  that  there  was  something  almost  overgay  in  the  way  they 
carried  on.  On  each  occasion  when  she  was  present,  Eugene  pro- 
posed that  he  take  Suzanne  home  in  his  car,  and  this  set  her 
thinking. 

There  came  a  time  when,  Angela  being  well  enough  from  her 
rheumatic  attack,  Eugene  invited  a  famous  singer,  a  tenor,  who 
had  a  charming  repertoire  of  songs,  to  come  to  his  apartment  and 
sing.  He  had  met  him  at  a  social  affair  in  Brooklyn  with  wThich 
Winfield  had  something  to  do.  A  number  of  people  were  in- 
vited— Mrs.  Dale,  Suzanne,  and  Kinroy,  among  others;  but 
Mrs.  Dale  could  not  come,  and  as  Suzanne  had  an  appointment 
for  the  next  morning,  Sunday,  in  the  city,  she  decided  to  stay  at 


THE    "GENIUS"  561 

the  Witlas.  This  pleased  Eugene  immensely.  He  had  bought 
a  sketching  book  which  he  had  begun  to  fill  with  sketches 
of  Suzanne  from  memory  and  these  he  wanted  to  show  her.  Be- 
sides, he  wanted  her  to  hear  this  singer's  beautiful  voice. 

The  company  was  interesting.  Kinroy  brought  Suzanne  early 
and  left.  Eugene  and  Suzanne,  after  she  had  exchanged  greet- 
ings with  Angela,  sat  out  on  the  little  stone  balcony  overlook- 
ing the  river  and  exchanged  loving  thoughts.  He  was  constantly 
holding  her  hand  when  no  one  was  looking  and  stealing  kisses. 
After  a  time  the  company  began  to  arrive,  and  finally  the  singer 
himself.  The  trained  nurse,  with  Eugene's  assistance,  helped 
Angela  forward,  who  listened  enraptured  to  the  songs.  Suzanne 
and  Eugene,  swept  by  the  charm  of  some  of  them,  looked  at 
each  other  with  that  burning  gaze  which  love  alone  understands. 
To  Eugene  Suzanne's  face  was  a  perfect  flower  of  hypnotic  in- 
fluence. He  could  scarcely  keep  his  eyes  off  her  for  a  moment 
at  a  time.  The  singer  ceased,  the  company  departed.  Angela 
was  left  crying  over  the  beauty  of  "The  Erlking,"  the  last  song 
rendered.  She  went  back  to  her  room,  and  Suzanne  ostensibly 
departed  for  hers.  She  came  out  to  say  a  few  final  words  to 
Mrs.  Witla,  then  came  through  the  studio  to  go  to  her  own  room 
again.  Eugene  was  there  waiting.  He  caught  her  in  his  arms, 
kissing  her  silently.  They  pretended  to  strike  up  a  conventional 
conversation,  and  he  invited  her  to  sit  out  on  the  stone  balcony 
for  a  few  last  moments.  The  moon  was  so  beautiful  over  the 
river. 

"Don't!"  she  said,  when  he  gathered  her  in  his  arms,  in  the 
shadow  of  the  night  outside.  "She  might  come." 

"No,"  he  said  eagerly. 

They  listened,  but  there  was  no  sound.  He  began  an  easy 
pretence  to  talk,  the  while  stroking  her  pretty  arm,  which  was 
bare.  Insanity  over  her  beauty,  the  loveliness  of  the  night,  the 
charm  of  the  music,  had  put  him  beside  himself.  He  drew  her 
into  his  arms  in  spite  of  her  protest,  only  to  have  Angela  sud- 
denly appear  at  the  other  end  of  the  room  where  the  door  was. 
There  was  no  concealing  anything — she  saw.  She  came  rapidly 
forward,  even  as  Suzanne  jumped  up,  a  sickening  rage  in  her 
heart,  a  sense  of  her  personal  condition  strong  in  her  mind,  a 
sense  of  something  terrible  and  climacteric  in  the  very  air,  but 
she  was  still  too  ill  to  risk  a  great  demonstration  or  to  declare 
herself  fully.  It  seemed  now  once  more  the  whole  world  had 
fallen  about  her  ears,  for  because  of  her  plans  and  in  spite  of 
all  her  suspicions,  she  had  not  been  ready  to  believe  that  Eugene 
would  really  trespass  again.  She  had  come  to  surprise  him, 


562  THE   "GENIUS" 

if  possible,  but  she  had  not  actually  expected  to,  had  hoped  not 
to.  Here  was  this  beautiful  girl,  the  victim  of  his  wiles,  and 
here  was  she  involved  by  her  own  planning,  while  Eugene, 
shame-faced,  she  supposed,  stood  by  ready  to  have  this  ridiculous 
liaison  nipped  in  the  bud.  She  did  not  propose  to  expose  herself 
to  Suzanne  if  she  could  help  it,  but  sorrow  for  herself,  shame 
for  him,  pity  for  Suzanne  in  a  way,  the  desire  to  preserve  the 
shell  of  appearances,  which  was  now,  after  this,  so  utterly  empty 
for  her  though  so  important  for  the  child,  caused  her  to  swell 
with  her  old-time  rage,  and  yet  to  hold  it  in  check.  Six  years 
before  she  would  have  raged  to  his  face,  but  time  had  softened 
her  in  this  respect.  She  did  not  see  the  value  of  brutal  words. 

"Suzanne,"  she  said,  standing  erect  in  the  filtered  gloom  of 
the  room  which  was  still  irradiated  by  the  light  of  the  moon  in 
the  west,  "how  could  you!  I  thought  so  much  better  of  you." 

Her  face,  thinned  by  her  long  illness  and  her  brooding  over 
her  present  condition,  was  still  beautiful  in  a  spiritual  way.  She 
wore  a  pale  yellow  and  white  flowered  dressing  gown  of  filmy, 
lacy  texture,  and  her  long  hair,  done  in  braids  by  the  nurse, 
was  hanging  down  her  back  like  the  Gretchen  she  was  to  him 
years  before.  Her  hands  were  thin  and  pale,  but  artistic,  and 
her  face  drawn  in  all  the  wearisome  agony  of  a  mater  dolorosa. 

"Why,  why,"  exclaimed  Suzanne,  terribly  shaken  out  of  her 
natural  fine  poise  for  the  moment  but  not  forgetful  of  the  domi- 
nating thought  in  her  mind,  "I  love  him;  that's  why,  Mrs. 
Witla." 

"Oh,  no,  you  don't!  you  only  think  you  love  him,  as  so  many 
women  have  before  you,  Suzanne,"  said  Angela  frozenly,  the 
thought  of  the  coming  child  always  with  her.  If  she  had  only 
told  him  before!  "Oh,  shame,  in  my  house,  and  you  a  young, 
supposedly  innocent  girl!  What  do  you  suppose  your  mother 
would  think  if  I  should  call  her  up  and  tell  her  now?  Or  your 
brother?  You  knew  he  was  a  married  man.  I  might  excuse  you 
if  it  weren't  for  that — if  you  hadn't  known  me  and  hadn't  ac- 
cepted my  hospitality.  As  for  him,  there  is  no  need  of  my  talking 
to  him.  This  is  an  old  story  with  him,  Suzanne.  He  has  done 
this  with  other  women  before  you,  and  he  will  do  it  with  other 
women  after  you.  It  is  one  of  the  things  I  have  to  bear  for 
having  married  a  man  of  so-called  talent.  Don't  think,  Suzanne, 
when  you  tell  me  you  love  him,  that  you  tell  me  anything  new. 
I  have  heard  that  story  before  from  other  women.  You  are  not 
the  first,  and  you  will  not  be  the  last." 

Suzanne  looked  at  Eugene  inquiringly,  vaguely,  helplessly, 
wondering  if  all  this  were  so. 


THE    "GENIUS''  563 

Eugene  hardened  under  Angela's  cutting  accusation,  but  he 
was  not  at  all  sure  at  first  what  he  ought  to  do.  He  wondered 
for  the  moment  whether  he  ought  not  to  abandon  Suzanne  and 
fall  back  into  his  old  state,  dreary  as  it  might  seem  to  him ;  but 
the  sight  of  her  pretty  face,  the  sound  of  Angela's  cutting  voice, 
determined  him  quickly.  "Angela,"  he  began,  recovering  his 
composure  the  while  Suzanne  contemplated  him,  "why  do  you 
talk  that  way?  You  know  that  what  you  say  isn't  true.  There 
was  one  other  woman.  I  will  tell  Suzanne  about  her.  There 
were  several  before  I  married  you.  I  will  tell  her  about  them. 
But  my  life  is  a  shell,  and  you  know  it.  This  apartment  is  a 
shell.  Absolutely  it  means  nothing  at  all  to  me.  There  has 
been  no  love  between  us,  certainly  not  on  my  part,  for  years, 
and  you  know  that.  You  have  practically  confessed  to  me  from 
time  to  time  that  you  do  not  care  for  me.  I  haven't  deceived 
this  girl.  I  am  glad  to  tell  her  now  how  things  stand." 

"How  things  stand!  How  things  stand!"  exclaimed  Angela, 
blazing  and  forgetting  herself  for  the  moment.  "Will  you  tell 
her  what  an  excellent,  faithful  husband  you  have  made  me? 
Will  you  tell  her  how  honestly  you  have  kept  your  word  pledged 
to  me  at  the  altar?  Will  you  tell  her  how  I  have  worked  and 
sacrificed  for  you  through  all  these  years?  How  I  have  been 
repaid  by  just  such  things  as  this?  I'm  sorry  for  you,  Suzanne, 
more  than  anything  else,"  went  on  Angela,  wondering  whether 
she  should  tell  Eugene  here  and  now  of  her  condition  but  fearing 
he  would  not  believe  it.  It  seemed  so  much  like  melodrama. 
"You  are  just  a  silly  little  girl  duped  by  an  expert  man,  who 
thinks  he  loves  you  for  a  little  while,  but  who  really  doesn't. 
He  will  get  over  it.  Tell  me  frankly  what  do  you  expect  to  get 
out  of  it  all?  You  can't  marry  him.  I  won't  give  him  a  di- 
vorce. I  can't,  as  he  will  know  later,  and  he  has  no  grounds  for 
obtaining  one.  Do  you  expect  to  be  his  mistress?  You  have  no 
hope  of  ever  being  anything  else.  Isn't  that  a  nice  ambition  for 
a  girl  of  your  standing?  And  you  are  supposed  to  be  virtuous! 
Oh,  I  am  ashamed  of  you,  if  you  are  not!  I  am  sorry  for  your 
mother.  I  am  astonished  to  think  that  you  would  so  belittle 
yourself." 

Suzanne  had  heard  the  "I  can't,"  but  she  really  did  not  know 
how  to  interpret  it.  It  had  never  occurred  to  her  that  there 
could  ever  be  a  child  here  to  complicate  matters.  Eugene  told 
her  that  he  was  unhappy,  that  there  was  nothing  between  him 
and  Angela  and  never  could  be. 

"But  I  love  him,  Mrs.  Witla,"  said  Suzanne  simply  and  rather 
dramatically.  She  was  tense,  erect,  pale  and  decidedly  beautiful. 


564  THE    ''GENIUS'1 

It  was  a  great  problem  to  have  so  quickly  laid  upon  her  shoul- 
ders. 

"Don't  talk  nonsense,  Suzanne!"  said  Angela  angrily  and 
desperately.  "Don't  deceive  yourself  and  stick  to  a  silly  pose. 
You  are  acting  now.  You're  talking  as  you  think  you  ought  to 
talk,  as  you  have  seen  people  talk  in  plays.  This  is  my  husband. 
You.  are  in  my  home.  Come,  get  your  things.  I  will  call  up 
your  mother  and  tell  her  how  things  stand,  and  she  will  send 
her  auto  for  you." 

"Oh,  no,"  said  Suzanne,  "you  can't  do  that!  I  can't  go  back 
there,  if  you  tell  her.  I  must  go  out  in  the  world  and  get  some- 
thing to  do  until  I  can  straighten  out  my  own  affairs.  I  won't 
be  able  to  go  home  any  more.  Oh,  what  shall  I  do?" 

"Be  calm,  Suzanne,"  said  Eugene  determinedly,  taking  her 
hand  and  looking  at  Angela  defiantly.  "She  isn't  going  to  call 
up  your  mother,  and  she  isn't  going  to  tell  your  mother.  You  are 
going  to  stay  here,  as  you  intended,  and  tomorrow  you  are  going 
where  you  thought  you  were  going." 

"Oh,  no,  she  isn't!"  said  Angela  angrily,  starting  for  the 
phone.  "She  is  going  home.  I'm  going  to  call  her  mother." 

Suzanne  stirred  nervously.  Eugene  put  his  hand  in  hers  to 
reassure  her. 

"Oh,  no,  you  aren't,"  he  said  determinedly.  "She  isn't  going 
home,  and  you  are  not  going  to  touch  that  phone.  If  you  do,  a 
number  of  things  are  going  to  happen,  and  they  are  going  to 
happen  quick." 

He  moved  between  her  and  the  telephone  receiver,  which  hung 
in  the  hall  outside  the  studio  and  toward  which  she  was  edging. 

Angela  paused  at  the  ominous  note  in  his  voice,  the  determined 
quality  of  his  attitude.  She  was  surprised  and  amazed  at  the 
almost  rough  manner  in  which  he  put  her  aside.  He  had  taken 
Suzanne's  hand,  he,  her  husband,  and  was  begging  her  to  be 
calm. 

"Oh,  Eugene,"  said  Angela  desperately,  frightened  and  horri- 
fied, her  anger  half  melted  in  her  fears,  "you  don't  know  what 
you  are  doing!  Suzanne  doesn't.  She  won't  want  anything  to 
do  with  you  when  she  does.  Young  as  she  is,  she  will  have  too 
much  womanhood." 

"What  are  you  talking  about?"  asked  Eugene  desperately. 
He  had  no  idea  of  what  Angela  was  driving  at,  not  the  faintest 
suspicion.  "What  are  you  talking  about?"  he  repeated  grimly. 

"Let  me  say  just  one  word  to  you  alone,  not  here  before  Su- 
zanne, just  one,  and  then  perhaps  you  will  be  willing  to  let  her 
go  home  tonight." 


THE   "GENIUS"  565 

Angela  was  subtle  in  this,  a  little  bit  wicked.  She  was  not 
using  her  advantage  in  exactly  the  right  spirit. 

"What  is  it?"  demanded  Eugene  sourly,  expecting  some  trick. 
He  had  so  long  gnawed  at  the  chains  which  bound  him  that  the 
thought  of  any  additional  lengths  which  might  be  forged  irri- 
tated him  greatly.  "Why  can't  you  tell  it  here?  What  differ- 
ence can  it  make?" 

"It  ought  to  make  all  the  difference  in  the  world.  Let  me 
say  it  to  you  alone." 

Suzanne,  who  wondered  what  it  could  be,  walked  away.  She 
was  wondering  what  it  was  that  Angela  had  to  tell.  The  latter's 
manner  was  not  exactly  suggestive  of  the  weighty  secret  she  bore. 
When  Suzanne  was  gone,  Angela  whispered  to  him. 

"It's  a  lie!"  said  Eugene  vigorously,  desperately,  hopelessly. 
"It's  something  you've  trumped  up  for  the  occasion.  It's  just 
like  you  to  say  that,  to  do  it!  Pah!  I  don't  believe  it.  It's  a 
lie!  It's  a  lie!  You  know  it's  a  lie!" 

"It's  the  truth!"  said  Angela  angrily,  pathetically,  outraged 
in  her  every  nerve  and  thought  by  the  reception  which  this  fact 
had  received,  and  desperate  to  think  that  the  announcement  of  a 
coming  child  by  him  should  be  received  in  this  manner  under 
such  circumstances  that  it  should  be  forced  from  her  as  a  last 
resort,  only  to  be  received  with  derision  and  scorn.  "It's  the 
truth,  and  you  ought  to  be  ashamed  to  say  that  to  me.  What 
can  I  expect  from  a  man,  though,  who  would  introduce  another 
woman  into  his  own  home  as  you  have  tonight?"  To  think  that 
she  should  be  reduced  to  such  a  situation  as  this  so  suddenly! 
It  was  impossible  to  argue  it  with  him  here.  She  was  ashamed 
now  that  she  had  introduced  it  at  this  time.  He  would  not  be- 
lieve her,  anyhow  now,  she  saw  that.  It  only  enraged  him  and 
her.  He  was  too  wild.  This  seemed  to  infuriate  him — to  con- 
demn her  in  his  mind  as  a  trickster  and  a  sharper,  someone  who 
was  using  unfair  means  to  hold  him.  He  almost  jumped  away 
from  her  in  disgust,  and  she  realized  that  she  had  struck  an  awful 
blow  which  apparently,  to  him,  had  some  elements  of  unfairness 
in  it. 

"Won't  you  have  the  decency  after  this  to  send  her  away?" 
she  pleaded  aloud,  angrily,  eagerly,  bitterly. 

Eugene  was  absolutely  in  a  fury  of  feeling.  If  ever  he  thor- 
oughly hated  and  despised  Angela,  he  did  so  at  that  moment. 
To  think  that  she  should  have  done  anything  like  this!  To 
think  that  she  should  have  complicated  this  problem  of  weari- 
ness of  her  with  a  thing  like  this!  How  cheap  it  was,  how 
shabby!  It  showed  the  measure  of  the  woman,  to  bring  a  child 


566  THE    "GENIUS" 

into  the  world,  regardless  of  the  interests  of  the  child,  in  order 
to  hold  him  against  his  will.  Damn!  Hell!  God  damn  such 
a  complicated,  rotten  world!  No,  she  was  lying.  She  could 
not  hold  him  that  way.  It  was  a  horrible,  low,  vile  trick.  He 
would  have  nothing  to  do  with  her.  He  would  show  her.  He 
would  leave  her.  He  would  show  her  that  this  sort  of  thing 
would  not  work  with  him.  It  was  like  every  other  petty  thing 
she  had  ever  done.  Never,  never,  never,  would  he  let  this  stand 
in  the  way.  Oh,  what  a  mean,  cruel,  wretched  thing  to  do ! 

Suzanne  came  back  while  they  were  arguing.  She  half  sus- 
pected what  it  was  all  about,  but  she  did  not  dare  to  act  or 
think  clearly.  The  events  of  this  night  were  too  numerous,  too 
complicated.  Eugene  had  said  so  forcibly  it  was  a  lie  whatever 
it  was,  that  she  half  believed  him.  That  was  a  sign  surely  of 
the  little  affection  that  existed  between  him  and  Angela.  An- 
gela was  not  crying.  Her  face  was  hard,  white,  drawn. 

"I  can't  stay  here,"  said  Suzanne  dramatically  to  Eugene.  "I 
will  go  somewhere.  I  had  better  go  to  a  hotel  for  the  night. 
Will  you  call  a  car?" 

"Listen  to  me,  Suzanne,"  said  Eugene  vigorously  and  deter- 
minedly. "You  love  me,  don't  you?" 

"You  know  I  do,"  she  replied. 

Angela  stirred  sneeringly. 

"Then  you  will  stay  here.  I  want  you  to  pay  no  attention  to 
anything  she  may  say  or  declare.  She  has  told  me  a  lie  tonight. 
I  know  why.  Don't  let  her  deceive  you.  Go  to  your  room  and 
your  bed.  I  want  to  talk  to  you  tomorrow.  There  is  no  need 
of  your  leaving  tonight.  There  is  plenty  of  room  here.  It's 
silly.  You're  here  now — stay." 

"But  I  don't  think  I'd  better  stay,"  said  Suzanne  nervously. 

Eugene  took  her  hand  reassuringly. 

"Listen  to  me,"  he  began. 

"But  she  won't  stay,"  said  Angela. 

"But  she  will,"  said  Eugene;  "and  if  she  don't  stay,  she  goes 
with  me.  I  will  take  her  home." 

"Oh,  no,  you  won't!"  replied  Angela. 

"Listen,"  said  Eugene  angrily.  "This  isn't  six  years  ago,  but 
now.  I'm  master  of  this  situation,  and  she  stays  here.  She 
stays  here,  or  she  goes  with  me  and  you  look  to  the  future  as 
best  you  may.  I  love  her.  I'm  not  going  to  give  her  up,  and  if 
you  want  to  make  trouble,  begin  now.  The  house  comes  down 
on  your  head,  not  mine." 

"{Oh!"  said  Angela,  half  terrified,  "what  do  I  hear?" 

"Just  that.     Now  you  go  to  your  room.     Suzanne  will  go  to 


THE    "GENIUS'  567 

hers.  I  will  go  to  mine.  We  will  not  have  any  more  fighting 
here  tonight.  The  jig  is  up.  The  die  is  cast.  I'm  through. 
Suzanne  comes  to  me,  if  she  will." 

Angela  walked  to  her  room  through  the  studio,  stricken  by 
the  turn  things  had  taken,  horrified  by  the  thoughts  in  her  mind, 
unable  to  convince  Eugene,  unable  to  depose  Suzanne,  her  throat 
dry  and  hot,  her  hands  shaking,  her  heart  beating  fitfully;  she 
felt  as  if  her  brain  would  burst,  her  heart  break  actually,  not 
emotionally.  She  thought  Eugene  had  gone  crazy,  and  yet  now, 
for  the  first  time  in  her  married  life,  she  realized  what  a  ter- 
rible mistake  she  had  made  in  always  trying  to  drive  him.  It 
hadn't  worked  tonight,  her  rage,  her  domineering,  critical  atti- 
tude. It  had  failed  her  completely,  and  also  this  scheme,  this 
beautiful  plan,  this  trump  card  on  which  she  had  placed  so  much 
reliance  for  a  happy  life,  this  child  which  she  had  hoped  to  play 
so  effectively.  He  didn't  believe  her.  He  wouldn't  even  admit 
its  possibility.  He  didn't  admire  her  for  it.  He  despised  her! 
He  looked  on  it  as  a  trick.  Oh,  what  an  unfortunate  thing  it 
had  been  to  mention  it!  And  yet  Suzanne  must  understand, 
she  must  know,  she  would  never  countenance  anything  like  this. 
But  what  would  he  do?  He  was  positively  livid  with  rage. 
What  fine  auspices  these  were  under  which  to  usher  a  child  into 
the  world !  She  stared  feverishly  before  her,  and  finally  began  to 
cry  hopelessly. 

Eugene  stood  in  the  hall  beside  Suzanne  after  she  had  gone. 
His  face  was  drawn,  his  eyes  hunted,  his  hair  tousled.  He 
looked  grim  and  determined  in  his  way,  stronger  than  he  had 
ever  looked  before. 

"Suzanne,"  he  said,  taking  the  latter  by  her  two  arms  and 
staring  into  her  eyes,  "she  has  told  me  a  lie,  a  lie,  a  cold,  mean, 
cruel  lie.  She'll  tell  it  you  shortly.  She  says  she  is  with  child 
by  me.  It  isn't  so.  She  couldn't  have  one.  If  she  did,  it  would 
kill  her.  She  would  have  had  one  long  ago  if  she  could  have. 
I  know  her.  She  thinks  this  will  frighten  me.  She  thinks  it 
will  drive  you  away.  Will  it?  It's  a  lie,  do  you  hear  me,  what- 
ever she  says.  It's  a  lie,  and  she  knows  it.  Ough!"  He 
dropped  her  left  arm  and  pulled  at  his  neck.  "I  can't  stand 
this.  You  won't  leave  me.  You  won't  believe  her,  will  you?" 

Suzanne  stared  into  his  distraught  face,  his  handsome,  desper- 
ate, significant  eyes.  She  saw  the  woe  there,  the  agony,  and  was 
sympathetic.  He  seemed  wonderfully  worthy  of  love,  unhappy, 
unfortunately  pursued;  and  yet  she  was  frightened.  Still  she 
had  promised  to  love  him. 


568  THE    "GENIUS" 

"No,"  she  said  fixedly,  her  eyes  speaking  a  dramatic  confidence. 

"You  won't  leave  here  tonight  ?" 

"No." 

She  smoothed  his  cheek  with  her  hand. 

"You  will  come  and  walk  with  me  in  the  morning?  I  have 
to  talk  with  you." 

"Yes." 

"Don't  be  afraid.  Just  lock  your  door  if  you  are.  She  won't 
bother  you.  She  won't  do  anything.  She  is  afraid  of  me.  She 
may  want  to  talk  with  you,  but  I  am  close  by.  Do  you  still 
love  me?" 

"Yes." 

"Will  you  come  to  me  if  I  can  arrange  it?" 

"Yes." 

"Even  in  the  face  of  what  she  says  ?" 

"Yes;  I  don't  believe  her.  I  believe  you.  What  difference 
could  it  make,  anyhow  ?  You  don't  love  her." 

"No,"  he  said;  "no,  no,  no!  I  never  have."  He  drew  her 
into  his  arms  wearily,  relievedly.  "Oh,  Flower  Face,"  he  said, 
"don't  give  me  up!  Don't  grieve.  Try  not  to,  anyhow.  I 
have  been  bad,  as  she  says,  but  I  love  you.  I  love  you,  and  I 
will  stake  all  on  that.  If  all  this  must  fall  about  our  heads, 
then  let  it  fall.  I  love  you." 

Suzanne  stroked  his  cheek  with  her  hands  nervously.  She 
was  deathly  pale,  frightened,  but  somehow  courageous  through 
it  all.  She  caught  strength  from  his  love. 

"I  love  you,"  she  said. 

"Yes,"  he  replied.    "You  won't  give  me  up?" 

"No,  I  won't,"  she  said,  not  really  understanding  the  depth  of 
her  own  mood.  "I  will  be  true." 

"Things  will  be  better  tomorrow,"  he  said,  somewhat  more 
quietly.  "We  will  be  calmer.  We  will  walk  and  talk.  You 
won't  leave  without  me?" 

"No." 

"Please  don't;  for  I  love  you,  and  we  must  talk  and  plan." 


CHAPTER   X 

THE  introduction  of  this  astonishing  fact  in  connection  with 
Angela  was  so  unexpected,  so  morally  diverting  and  pe- 
culiar that  though  Eugene  denied  it,  half  believed  she  was  lying, 
he  was  harassed  by  the  thought  that  she  might  be  telling  the 
truth.  It  was  so  unfair,  though,  was  all  he  could  think,  so  un- 
kind !  It  never  occurred  to  him  that  it  was  accidental,  as  indeed 
it  was  not,  but  only  that  it  was  a  trick,  sharp,  cunning,  ill-timed 
for  him,  just  the  thing  calculated  to  blast  his  career  and  tie  him 
down  to  the  old  regime  wrhen  he  wanted  most  to  be  free.  A  new 
life  was  dawning  for  him  now.  For  the  first  time  in  his  life  he 
was  to  have  a  woman  after  his  own  heart,  so  young,  so  beauti- 
ful, so  intellectual,  so  artistic!  With  Suzanne  by  his  side,  he 
was  about  to  plumb  the  depths  of  all  the  joys  of  living.  With- 
out her,  life  was  to  be  dark  and  dreary,  and  here  was  Angela 
coming  forward  at  the  critical  moment  disrupting  this  dream  as 
best  she  could  by  the  introduction  of  a  child  that  she  did  not 
want,  and  all  to  hold  him  against  his  will.  If  ever  he  hated  her 
for  trickery  and  sharp  dealing,  he  did  so  now.  What  would  the 
effect  on  Suzanne  be?  How  would  he  convince  her  that  it  was 
a  trick?  She  must  understand;  she  would.  She  would  not  let 
this  miserable  piece  of  chicanery  stand  between  him  and  her. 
He  turned  in  his  bed  wearily  after  he  had  gone  to  it,  but  he 
could  not  sleep.  He  had  to  say  something,  do  something.  So 
he  arose,  slipped  on  a  dressing  gown,  and  went  to  Angela's  room. 

That  distraught  soul,  for  all  her  determination  and  fighting 
capacity,  was  enduring  for  the  second  time  in  her  life  the  fires 
of  hell.  To  think  that  in  spite  of  all  her  work,  her  dreams,  this 
recent  effort  to  bring  about  peace  and  happiness,  perhaps  at 
the  expense  of  her  own  life,  she  was  compelled  to  witness  a 
scene  like  this.  Eugene  was  trying  to  get  free.  He  was  obvi- 
ously determined  to  do  so.  This  scandalous  relationship,  when 
had  it  begun?  Would  her  effort  to  hold  him  fail?  It  looked 
that  way,  and  yet  surely  Suzanne,  when  she  knew,  when  she 
understood,  would  leave  him.  Any  woman  would. 

Her  head  ached,  her  hands  were  hot,  she  fancied  she  might 
be  suffering  a  terrible  nightmare,  she  was  so  sick  and  weak;  but, 
no,  this  was  her  room.  A  little  while  ago  she  was  sitting  in  her 
husband's  studio,  surrounded  by  friends,  the  object  of  much  solici- 
tude, Eugene  apparently  considerate  and  thoughtful  of  her,  a 

569 


570  THE    '"GENIUS" 

beautiful  programme  being  rendered  for  their  special  benefit. 
Now  she  was  lying  here  in  her  room,  a  despised  wife,  an  out- 
cast from  affection  and  happiness,  the  victim  of  some  horrible 
sorcery  of  fate  whereby  another  woman  stood  in  her  place  in 
Eugene's  affection.  To  see  Suzanne,  proud  in  her  young  beauty, 
confronting  her  with  bold  eyes,  holding  her  husband's  hand, 
saying  in  what  seemed  to  her  to  be  brutal,  or  insane,  or  silly 
melodramatic  make-believe,  "But  I  love  him,  Mrs.  Witla,"  was 
maddening.  Oh,  God!  Oh,  God!  Would  her  tortures  never 
cease?  Must  all  her  beautiful  dreams  come  to  nothing?  Would 
Eugene  leave  her,  as  he  so  violently  said  a  little  while  ago  ?  She 
had  never  seen  him  like  this.  It  was  terrible  to  see  him  so  de- 
termined, so  cold  and  brutal.  His  voice  had  actually  been  harsh 
and  guttural,  something  she  had  never  known  before  in  him. 

She  trembled  as  she  thought,  and  then  great  flashes  of  rage 
swept  her  only  to  be  replaced  by  rushes  of  fear.  She  was  in  such 
a  terrific  position.  The  woman  was  with  him,  young,  defiant, 
beautiful.  She  had  heard  him  call  to  her,  had  heard  them  talk- 
ing. Once  she  thought  that  now  would  be  the  time  to  murder 
him,  Suzanne,  herself,  the  coming  life  and  end  it  all;  but  at 
this  critical  moment,  having  been  sick  and  having  grown  so  much 
older,  with  this  problem  of  the  coming  life  before  her,  she  had 
no  chart  to  go  by.  She  tried  to  console  herself  with  the  thought 
that  he  must  abandon  his  course,  that  he  would  when  the  true 
force  of  what  she  had  revealed  had  had  time  to  sink  home;  but 
it  had  not  had  time  yet.  Would  it  before  he  did  anything  rash? 
Would  it  before  he  had  completely  compromised  himself  and 
Suzanne?  Judging  from  her  talk  and  his,  he  had  not  as  yet,  or 
she  thought  not.  What  was  he  going  to  do?  What  was  he 
going  to  do? 

Angela  feared  as  she  lay  there  that  in  spite  of  her  revelation 
he  might  really  leave  her  immediately.  There  might  readily 
spring  a  terrible  public  scandal  out  of  all  this.  The  mockery  of 
their  lives  laid  bare;  the  fate  of  the  child  jeopardized;  Eugene, 
Suzanne,  and  herself  disgraced,  though  she  had  little  thought  for 
Suzanne.  Suzanne  might  get  him,  after  all.  She  might  acci- 
dentally be  just  hard  and  cold  enough.  The  world  might  pos- 
sibly forgive  him.  She  herself  might  die!  What  an  end,  after 
all  her  dreams  of  something  bigger,  better,  surer!  Oh,  the  pity, 
the  agony  of  this!  The  terror  and  horror  of  a  wrecked  life! 

And  then  Eugene  came  into  the  room. 

He  was  haggard,  stormy-eyed,  thoughtful,  melancholy,  as  he 
entered.  He  stood  in  the  doorway  first,  intent,  then  clicked  a 
little  night-lamp  button  which  threw  on  a  very  small  incandes- 


THE    "GENIUS"  571 

cent  light  near  the  head  of  Angela's  bed,  and  then  sat  down  in  a 
rocking-chair  which  the  nurse  had  placed  near  the  medicine  table. 
Angela  had  so  much  improved  that  no  night  nurse  was  needed — 
only  a  twelve-hour  one. 

"Well,"  he  said  solemnly  but  coldly,  when  he  saw  her  pale, 
distraught,  much  of  her  old,  youthful  beauty  still  with  her,  "you 
think  you  have  scored  a  splendid  trick,  don't  you?  You  think 
you  have  sprung  a  trap  ?  I  simply  came  in  here  to  tell  you  that 
you  haven't — that  you  have  only  seen  the  beginning  of  the  end. 
You  say  you  are  going  to  have  a  child.  I  don't  believe  it.  It's 
a  lie,  and  you  know  it's  a  lie.  You  saw  that  there  was  an  end 
coming  to  all  this  state  of  weariness  some  time,  and  this  is  your 
answer.  Well,  you've  played  one  trick  too  many,  and  you've 
played  it  in  vain.  You  lose.  I  win  this  time.  I'm  going  to  be 
free  now,  I  want  to  say  to  you,  and  I  am  going  to  be  free  if  I 
have  to  turn  everything  upside  down.  I  don't  care  if  there  were 
seventeen  prospective  children  instead  of  one.  It's  a  lie,  in  the 
first  place;  but  if  it  isn't,  it's  a  trick,  and  I'm  not  going  to  be 
tricked  any  longer.  I've  had  all  I  want  of  domination  and  trick- 
ery and  cheap  ideas.  I'm  through  now,  do  you  hear  me?  I'm 
through." 

He  felt  his  forehead  with  a  nervous  hand.  His  head  ached, 
he  was  half  sick.  This  was  such  a  dreary  pit  to  find  himself  in, 
this  pit  of  matrimony,  chained  by  a  domineering  wife  and  a 
trickily  manoeuvred  child.  His  child!  What  a  mockery  at  this 
stage  of  his  life!  How  he  hated  the  thought  of  that  sort  of 
thing,  how  cheap  it  all  seemed! 

-  Angela,  who  was  wide-eyed,  flushed,  exhausted,  lying  staring 
on  her  pillow,  asked  in  a  weary,  indifferent  voice:  "What  do 
you  want  me  to  do,  Eugene,  leave  you  ?" 

"I'll  tell  you,  Angela,"  he  said  sepulchrally,  "I  don't  know 
what  I  want  you  to  do  just  at  this  moment.  The  old  life  is  all 
over.  It's  as  dead  as  dead  can  be.  For  eleven  or  twelve  years 
now  I  have  lived  with  you,  knowing  all  the  while  that  I  was 
living  a  lie.  I  have  never  really  loved  you  since  we  were  mar- 
ried. You  know  that.  I  may  have  loved  you  in  the  beginning, 
yes,  I  did,  and  at  Blackwood,  but  that  was  a  long,  long  while 
ago.  I  never  should  have  married  you.  It  was  a  mistake,  but  I 
did,  and  I've  paid  for  it,  inch  by  inch.  You  have,  too.  You 
have  insisted  all  along  that  I  ought  to  love  you.  You  have  brow- 
beaten and  abused  me  for  something  I  could  no  more  do  than  I 
could  fly.  Now,  at  this  last  minute,  you  introduce  a  child  to 
hold  me.  I  know  why  you  have  done  it.  You  imagine  that  in 
some  way  you  have  been  appointed  by  God  to  be  my  mentor  and 


572  THE    "GENIUS" 

guardian.  Well,  I  tell  you  now  that  you  haven't.  It's  all  over. 
If  there  were  fifty  children,  it's  all  over.  Suzanne  isn't  going  to 
believe  any  such  cheap  story  as  that,  and  if  she  did  she  wouldn't 
leave  me.  She  knows  why  you  do  it.  All  the  days  of  weariness 
are  over  for  me,  all  the  days  of  being  afraid.  I'm  not  an  ordi- 
nary man,  and  I'm  not  going  to  live  an  ordinary  life.  You  have 
always  insisted  on  holding  me  down  to  the  little,  cheap  conven- 
tions as  you  have  understood  them.  Out  in  Wisconsin,  out  in 
Blackwood.  Nothing  doing.  It's  all  over  from  now  on.  Every- 
thing's over.  This  house,  my  job,  my  real  estate  deal — every- 
thing. I  don't  care  what  your  condition  is.  I  love  this  girl  in 
there,  and  I'm  going  to  have  her.  Do  you  hear  me?  I  love  her, 
and  I'm  going  to  have  her.  She's  mine.  She  suits  me.  I  love 
her,  and  no  power  under  God  is  going  to  stay  me.  Now  you 
think  this  child  proposition  you  have  fixed  up  is  going  to  stay  me, 
but  you  are  going  to  find  out  that  it  can't,  that  it  won't.  It's  a 
trick,  and  I  know  it,  and  you  know  it.  It's  too  late.  It  might 
have  last  year,  or  two  years  ago,  or  three,  but  it  won't  work  now. 
You  have  played  your  last  card.  That  girl  in  there  belongs  to 
me,  and  I'm  going  to  have  her." 

Again  he  smoothed  his  face  in  a  weary  way,  pausing  to  sway 
the  least  bit  in  his  chair.  His  teeth  were  set,  his  eyes  hard. 
Consciously  he  realized  that  it  was  a  terrible  situation  that  con- 
fronted him,  hard  to  wrestle  with. 

Angela  gazed  at  him  with  the  eyes  of  one  who  is  not  quite 
sure  that  she  even  sees  aright.  She  knew  that  Eugene  had  de- 
veloped. He  had  become  stronger,  more  urgent,  more  defiant, 
during  all  these  years  in  which  he  had  been  going  upward.  He 
was  no  more  like  the  Eugene  who  had  clung  to  her  for  com- 
panionship in  the  dark  days  at  Biloxi  and  elsewhere  than  a  child 
is  like  a  grown  man.  He  was  harder,  easier  in  his  manner,  more 
indifferent,  and  yet,  until  now,  there  had  never  been  a  want  of 
traces  of  the  old  Eugene.  What  had  become  of  them  so  sud- 
denly? Why  was  he  so  raging,  so  bitter?  This  girl,  this  fool- 
ish, silly,  selfish  girl,  with  her  Circe  gift  of  beauty,  by  tolerance 
of  his  suit,  by  yielding,  perhaps  by  throwing  herself  at  Eugene's 
head,  had  done  this  thing.  She  had  drawn  him  away  from  her  in 
spite  of  the  fact  that  they  had  appeared  to  be  happily  mated.  Su- 
zanne did  not  know  that  they  were  not.  In  this  mood  he  might 
actually  leave  her,  even  as  she  was,  with  child.  It  depended  on 
the  girl.  Unless  she  could  influence  her,  unless  she  could  bring 
pressure  to  bear  in  some  way,  Eugene  might  readily  be  lost  to 
her,  and  then  what  a  tragedy !  She  could  not  afford  to  have  him 
go  now.  Why,  in  six  months !  She  shivered  at  the  thought 


THE    '"  GENIUS'  573 

of  all  the  misery  a  separation  would  entail.  His  position,  their 
child,  society,  this  apartment.  Dear  God,  it  would  drive  her 
crazy  if  he  were  to  desert  her  now! 

"Oh,  Eugene,"  she  said  quite  sadly  and  without  any  wrath  in 
her  voice  at  this  moment,  for  she  was  too  torn,  terrified  and 
disheveled  in  spirit  to  feel  anything  save  a  haunting  sense  of  fear, 
"you  don't  know  what  a  terrible  mistake  you  are  making.  I  did 
do  this  thing  on  purpose,  Eugene.  It  is  true.  Long  ago  in  Phila- 
delphia with  Mrs.  Sanifore  I  went  to  a  physician  to  see  if  it 
were  possible  that  I  might  have  a  child.  You  know  that  I  always 
thought  that  I  couldn't.  Well,  he  told  me  that  I  could.  I  went 
because  I  thought  that  you  needed  something  like  that,  Eugene, 
to  balance  you.  I  knew  you  didn't  want  one.  I  thought  you 
would  be  angry  when  I  told  you.  I  didn't  act  on  it  for  a  long 
while.  I  didn't  want  one  myself.  I  hoped  that  it  might  be  a 
little  girl  if  ever  there  wras  one,  because  I  know  that  you  like 
little  girls.  It  seems  silly  now  in  the  face  of  what  has  happened 
tonight.  I  see  what  a  mistake  I  have  made.  I  see  what  the 
mistake  is,  but  I  didn't  mean  it  evilly,  Eugene.  I  didn't.  I 
wanted  to  hold  you,  to  bind  you  to  me  in  some  way,  to  help  you. 
Do  you  utterly  blame  me,  Eugene?  I'm  your  wife,  you  know." 

He  stirred  irritably,  and  she  paused,  scarcely  knowing  how  to 
go  on.  She  could  see  how  terribly  irritated  he  was,  how  sick  at 
heart,  and  yet  she  resented  this  attitude  on  his  part.  It  was  so 
hard  to  endure  when  all  along  she  had  fancied  that  she  had  so 
many  just  claims  on  him,  moral,  social,  other  claims,  which  he 
dare  not  ignore.  Here  she  was  now,  sick,  weary,  pleading  with 
him  for  something  that  ought  justly  be  hers — and  this  coming 
child's! 

"Oh,  Eugene,"  she  said  quite  sadly,  and  still  without  any 
wrath  in  her  voice,  "please  think  before  you  make  a  mistake. 
You  don't  really  love  this  girl,  you  only  think  you  do.  You 
think  she  is  beautiful  and  good  and  sweet  and  you  are  going  to 
tear  everything  up  and  leave  me,  but  you  don't  love  her,  and 
you  are  going  to  find  it  out.  You  don't  love  anyone,  Eugene. 
You  can't.  You  are  too  selfish.  If  you  had  any  real  love  in 
you,  some  of  it  would  have  come  out  to  me,  for  I  have  tried  to 
be  all  that  a  good  wife  should  be,  but  it  has  been  all  in  vain.  I've 
known  you  haven't  liked  me  all  these  years.  I've  seen  it  in  your 
eyes,  Eugene.  You  have  never  come  very  close  to  me  as  a  lover 
should  unless  you  had  to  or  you  couldn't  avoid  me.  You  have 
been  cold  and  indifferent,  and  now  that  I  look  back  I  see  that 
it  has  made  me  so.  I  have  been  cold  and  hard.  I've  tried  to 
steel  myself  to  match  what  I  thought  was  your  steeliness,  and 


574  THE   "  GENIUS'5 

now  I  see  what  it  has  done  for  me.  I'm  sorry.  But  as  for  her, 
you  don't  love  her  and  you  won't.  She's  too  young.  She  hasn't 
any  ideas  that  agree  with  yours.  You  think  she's  soft  and  gentle, 
and  yet  big  and  wise,  but  do  you  think  if  she  had  been  that  she 
could  have  stood  up  there  as  she  did  tonight  and  looked  me  in 
the  eyes — me,  your  wife — and  told  me  that  she  loved  you — you, 
my  husband?  Do  you  think  if  she  had  any  shame  she  would  be 
in  there  now  knowing  what  she  does,  for  I  suppose  you  have 
told  her?  What  kind  of  a  girl  is  that,  anyway?  You  call  her 
good?  Good!  Would  a  good  girl  do  anything  like  that?" 

"What  is  the  use  of  arguing  by  appearances?"  asked  Eugene, 
who  had  interrupted  her  with  exclamations  of  opposition  and 
bitter  comments  all  through  the  previous  address.  "The  situa- 
tion is  one  which  makes  anything  look  bad.  She  didn't  intend  to 
be  put  in  a  position  where  she  would  have  to  tell  you  that  she 
loved  me.  She  didn't  come  here  to  let  me  make  love  to  her  in 
this  apartment.  I  made  love  to  her.  She's  in  love  with  me, 
and  I  made  her  love  me.  I  didn't  know  of  this  other  thing.  If  I 
had,  it  wouldn't  have  made  any  difference.  However,  let  that 
be  as  it  will.  So  it  is.  I'm  in  love  with  her,  and  that's  all  there 
is  to  it." 

Angela  stared  at  the  wall.  She  was  half  propped  up  on  a 
pillow,  and  had  no  courage  now  to  speak  of  and  no  fighting 
strength. 

"I  know  what  it  is  with  you,  Eugene,"  she  said,  after  a  time; 
"it's  the  yoke  that  galls.  It  isn't  me  only;  it's  anyone.  It's 
marriage.  You  don't  want  to  be  married.  It  would  be  the  same 
with  any  woman  who  might  ever  have  loved  and  married  you, 
or  with  any  number  of  children.  You  would  want  to  get  rid  of 
her  and  them.  It's  the  yoke  that  galls  you,  Eugene.  You  want 
your  freedom,  and  you  won't  be  satisfied  until  you  have  it.  A 
child  wouldn't  make  any  difference.  I  can  see  that  now." 

"I  want  my  freedom,"  he  exclaimed  bitterly  and  inconsider- 
ately, "and,  what's  more,  I'm  going  to  have  it!  I  don't  care. 
I'm  sick  of  lying  and  pretending,  sick  of  common  little  piffling 
notions  of  what  you  consider  right  and  wrong.  For  eleven  or 
twelve  years  now  I  have  stood  it.  I  have  sat  with  you  every 
morning  at  breakfast  and  every  evening  at  dinner,  most  of  the 
time  when  I  didn't  want  to.  I  have  listened  to  your  theories  of 
life  when  I  didn't  believe  a  word  of  what  you  said,  and  didn't 
care  anything  about  what  you  thought.  I've  done  it  because  I 
thought  I  ought  to  do  it  so  as  not  to  hurt  your  feelings,  but  I'm 
through  with  all  that.  What  have  I  had  ?  Spying  on  me,  oppo- 
sition, searching  my  pockets  for  letters,  complaining  if  I  dared 


THE   "GENIUS"  575 

to  stay  out  a  single  evening  and  did  not  give  an  account  of 
myself. 

"Why  didn't  you  leave  me  after  that  affair  at  Riverdale? 
Why  do  you  hang  on  to  me  when  I  don't  love  you?  One'd 
think  I  was  prisoner  and  you  my  keeper.  Good  Christ!  When 
I  think  of  it,  it  makes  me  sick!  Well,  there's  no  use  worrying 
over  that  any  more.  It's  all  over.  It's  all  beautifully  over,  and 
I'm  done  with  it.  I'm  going  to  live  a  life  of  my  own  hereafter. 
I'm  going  to  carve  out  some  sort  of  a  career  that  suits  me.  I'm 
going  to  live  with  someone  that  I  can  really  love,  and  that's  the 
end  of  it.  Now  you  run  and  do  anything  you  want  to." 

He  was  like  a  young  horse  that  had  broken  rein  and  that  thinks 
that  by  rearing  and  plunging  he  shall  become  forever  free.  He 
was  thinking  of  green  fields  and  delightful  pastures.  He  was  free 
now,  in  spite  of  what  she  had  told  him.  This  night  had  made 
him  so,  and  he  was  going  to  remain  free.  Suzanne  would  stand 
by  him,  he  felt  it.  He  was  going  to  make  it  perfectly  plain  to 
Angela  that  never  again,  come  what  may,  would  things  be  as 
they  were. 

"Yes,  Eugene,"  she  replied  sadly,  after  listening  to  his  protes- 
tations on  this  score,  "I  think  that  you  do  want  your  freedom, 
now  that  I  see  you.  I'm  beginning  to  see  what  it  means  to  you. 
But  I  have  made  such  a  terrible  mistake.  Are  you  thinking  about 
me  at  all?  What  shall  I  do?  It  is  true  that  there  will  be  a 
child  unless  I  die.  I  may  die.  I'm  afraid  of  that,  or  I  was.  I 
am  not  now.  The  only  reason  I  would  care  to  live  would  be  to 
take  care  of  it.  I  didn't  think  I  was  going  to  be  ill  with  rheu- 
matism. I  didn't  think  my  heart  was  going  to  be  affected  in 
this  way.  I  didn't  think  that  you  were  going  to  do  as  you  have 
done,  but  now  that  you  have,  nothing  matters.  Oh,"  she  said 
sadly,  hot  tears  welling  to  her  eyes,  "it  is  all  such  a  mistake!  If 
I  only  hadn't  done  this!" 

Eugene  stared  at  the  floor.  He  wasn't  softened  one  bit.  He 
did  not  think  she  was  going  to  die — no  such  luck!  He  was 
thinking  that  this  merely  complicated  things,  or  that  she  might 
be  acting,  but  that  it  could  not  stand  in  his  way.  Why  had  she 
tried  to  trick  him  in  this  way?  It  was  her  fault.  Now  she 
was  crying,  but  that  was  the  old  hypocrisy  of  emotion  that  she 
had  used  so  often.  He  did  not  intend  to  desert  her  absolutely. 
She  would  have  plenty  to  live  on.  Merely  he  did  not  propose  to 
live  with  her,  if  he  could  help  it,  or  only  nominally,  anyhow. 
The  major  portion  of  his  time  should  be  given  to  Suzanne. 

"I  don't  care  what  it  costs,"  he  said  finally.  "I  don't  pro- 
pose to  live  with  you.  I  didn't  ask  you  to  have  a  child.  It  was 


576  THE    "GENIUS" 

none  of  my  doing.  You're  not  going  to  be  deserted  financially, 
but  I'm  not  going  to  live  with  you." 

He  stirred  again,  and  Angela  stared  hot-cheeked.  The  hard- 
ness of  the  man  enraged  her  for  the  moment.  She  did  not  be- 
lieve that  she  would  starve,  but  their  improving  surroundings, 
their  home,  their  social  position,  would  be  broken  up  com- 
pletely. 

"Yes,  yes.  I  understand,"  she  pleaded,  with  an  effort  at 
controlling  herself,  "but  I  am  not  the  only  one  to  be  considered. 
Are  you  thinking  of  Mrs.  Dale,  and  what  she  may  do  and  say  ? 
She  isn't  going  to  let  you  take  Suzanne  if  she  knows  it,  without 
doing  something  about  it.  She  is  an  able  woman.  She  loves 
Suzanne,  however  self-willed  she  may  be.  She  likes  you  now, 
but  how  long  do  you  think  she  is  going  to  like  you  when  she 
learns  what  you  want  to  do  with  her  daughter?  \Vhat  are  you 
going  to  do  with  her?  You  can't  marry  her  under  a  year  even 
if  I  were  willing  to  give  you  a  divorce.  You  could  scarcely  get 
a  divorce  in  that  time." 

"I'm  going  to  live  with  her,  that's  what  I'm  going  to  do,"  de- 
clared Eugene.  "She  loves  me,  she's  willing  to  take  me  just  as  I 
am.  She  doesn't  need  marriage  ceremonies  and  rings  and  vows 
and  chains.  She  doesn't  believe  in  them.  As  long  as  I  love  her, 
all  right.  When  I  cease  to  love  her,  she  doesn't  want  me  any 
more.  Some  difference  in  that,  isn't  there?"  he  added  bitterly. 
"It  doesn't  sound  exactly  like  Blackwood,  does  it?" 

Angela  bridled.     His  taunts  were  cruel. 

"She  says  that,  Eugene,"  she  replied  quietly,  "but  she  hasn't 
had  time  to  think.  You've  hypnotized  her  for  the  moment. 
She's  fascinated.  When  she  stops  to  think  later,  if  she  has  any 
sense,  any  pride —  But,  oh,  why  should  I  talk,  you  won't 
listen.  You  won't  think."  Then  she  added:  "But  what  do 
you  propose  to  do  about  Mrs.  Dale?  Don't  you  suppose  she 
will  fight  you,  even  if  I  do  not?  I  wish  you  would  stop  and 
think,  Eugene.  This  is  a  terrible  thing  you  are  doing." 

"Think!  Think!"  he  exclaimed  savagely  and  bitterly.  "As 
though  I  had  not  been  thinking  all  these  years.  Think!  Hell! 
I  haven't  done  anything  but  think.  I've  thought  until  the  soul 
within  me  is  sick.  I've  thought  until  I  wish  to  God  I  could 
stop.  I've  thought  about  Mrs.  Dale.  Don't  you  worry  about 
her.  I'll  settle  this  matter  with  her  later.  Just  now  I  want  to 
convince  you  of  what  I  am  going  to  do.  I'm  going  to  have 
Suzanne,  and  you're  not  going  to  stop  me." 

"Oh,  Eugene,"  sighed  Angela,  "if  something  would  only  make 
you  see!  It  is  partially  my  fault.  I  have  been  hard  and  sus- 


THE    "GENIUS"  577 

picious  and  jealous,  but  you  have  given  me  some  cause  to  be, 
don't  you  think?  I  see  now  that  I  have  made  a  mistake.  I 
have  been  too  hard  and  too  jealous,  but  I  could  reform  if  you 
would  let  me  try."  (She  was  thinking  now  of  living,  not  dy- 
ing.) "I  know  I  could.  You  have  so  much  to  lose.  Is  this 
change  worth  it?  You  know  so  well  how  the  world  looks  at 
these  things.  Why,  even  if  you  should  obtain  your  freedom  from 
me  under  the  circumstances,  what  do  you  suppose  the  world 
would  think?  You  couldn't  desert  your  child.  Why  not  wait 
and  see  what  happens?  I  might  die.  There  have  been  such 
cases.  Then  you  would  be  free  to  do  as  you  pleased.  That  is 
only  a  little  way  off." 

It  was  a  specious  plea,  calculated  to  hold  him;  but  he  saw 
through  it. 

"Nothing  doing!"  he  exclaimed,  in  the  slang  of  the  day.  "I 
know  all  about  that.  I  know  what  you're  thinking.  In  the  first 
place,  I  don't  believe  you  are  in  the  condition  you  say  you  are. 
In  the  next  place,  you're  not  going  to  die.  I  don't  propose  to 
wait  to  be  free.  I  know  you,  and  I've  no  faith  in  you.  What  I 
do  needn't  affect  your  condition.  You're  not  going  to  starve. 
No  one  need  know,  unless  you  start  a  row  about  it.  Suzanne 
and  I  can  arrange  this  between  ourselves.  I  know  what  you're 
thinking,  but  you're  not  going  to  interfere.  If  you  do,  I'll  smash 
everything  in  sight — you,  this  apartment,  my  job —  He 

clenched  his  hands  desperately,  determinedly. 

Angela's  hands  were  tingling  with  nervous  pains  while  Eugene 
talked.  Her  eyes  ached  and  her  heart  fluttered.  She  could  not 
understand  this  dark,  determined  man,  so  savage  and  so  resolute 
in  his  manner.  Was  this  Eugene  who  was  always  moving  about 
quietly  when  he  was  near  her,  getting  angry  at  times,  but  always 
feeling  sorry  and  apologizing?  She  had  boasted  to  some  of  her 
friends,  and  particularly  to  Marietta,  in  a  friendly,  jesting  way 
that  she  could  wind  Eugene  around  her  little  finger.  He  was 
so  easy-going  in  the  main,  so  quiet.  Here  he  was  a  raging  demon 
almost,  possessed  of  an  evil  spirit  of  desire  and  tearing  up  his 
and  hers  and  Suzanne's  life  for  that  matter,  by  the  roots.  She 
did  not  care  for  Suzanne,  though,  now,  or  Mrs.  Dale.  Her 
own  blighted  life,  and  Eugene's,  looming  so  straight  ahead  of 
her  terrified  her. 

"What  do  you  suppose  Mr.  Colfax  will  do  when  he  hears  of 
this?"  she  asked  desperately,  hoping  to  frighten  him. 

"I  don't  care  a  damn  what  Mr.  Colfax  will  or  can  do!"  he 
replied  sententiously.  "I  don't  care  a  damn  what  anybody  does 
or  says  or  thinks.  I  love  Suzanne  Dale.  She  loves  me.  She 


578  THE    "GENIUS" 

wants  me.  There's  an  end  of  that.  I'm  going  to  her  now.  You 
stay  me  if  you  can/' 

Suzanne  Dale !  Suzanne  Dale !  How  that  name  enraged  and 
frightened  Angela!  Never  before  had  she  witnessed  quite  so 
clearly  the  power  of  beauty.  Suzanne  Dale  was  young  and 
beautiful.  She  was  looking  at  her  only  tonight  thinking  how 
fascinating  she  was — how  fair  her  face — and  here  was  Eugene 
bewitched  by  it,  completely  undone.  Oh,  the  terror  of  beauty! 
The  terror  of  social  life  generally!  Why  had  she  entertained? 
Why  become  friendly  with  the  Dales?  But  then  there  were 
other  personalities,  almost  as  lovely  and  quite  as  young — Mar- 
jorie  McLennan,  Florence  Reel,  Henrietta  Tenman,  Annette 
Kean.  It  might  have  been  any  one  of  these.  She  couldn't  have 
been  expected  to  shut  out  all  young  women  from  Eugene's  life. 
No ;  it  was  Eugene.  It  was  his  attitude  toward  life.  His  craze 
about  the  beautiful,  particularly  in  women.  She  could  see  it  now. 
He  really  was  not  strong  enough.  Beauty  would  always  upset 
him  at  critical  moments.  She  had  seen  it  in  relation  to  herself — 
the  beauty  of  her  form,  which  he  admired  so,  or  had  admired. 
"God,"  she  prayed  silently,  "give  me  wisdom  now.  Give  me 
strength.  I  don't  deserve  it,  but  help  me.  Help  me  to  save  him. 
Help  me  to  save  myself." 

"Oh,  Eugene,"  she  said  aloud,  hopelessly,  "I  wish  you  would 
stop  and  think.  I  wish  you  would  let  Suzanne  go  her  way  in 
the  morning,  and  you  stay  sane  and  calm.  I  won't  care  about 
myself.  I  can  forgive  and  forget.  I'll  promise  you  I'll  never 
mention  it.  If  a  child  comes,  I'll  do  my  best  not  to  let  it  annoy 
you.  I'll  try  yet  not  to  have  one.  It  may  not  be  too  late.  I'll 
change  from  this  day  forth.  Oh!"  She  began  to  cry. 

"No!  By  God!"  he  said,  getting  up.  "No!  No!  No!  I'm 
through  now.  I'm  through!  I've  had  enough  of  fake  hysterics 
and  tears.  Tears  one  minute,  and  wrath  and  hate  the  next. 
Subtlety!  Subtlety!  Subtlety!  Nothing  doing.  You've  been 
master  and  jailer  long  enough.  It's  my  turn  now.  I'll  do  a  little 
jailing  and  task-setting  for  a  change.  I'm  in  the  saddle,  and  I'm 
going  to  stay  there.  You  can  cry  if  you  want  to,  you  can  do 
what  you  please  about  the  child.  I'm  through.  I'm  tired,  and 
I'm  going  to  bed,  but  this  thing  is  going  to  stand  just  as  it  does. 
I'm  through,  and  that's  all  there  is  to  it." 

He  strode  out  of  the  room  angrily  and  fiercely,  but  neverthe- 
less, when  he  reached  it,  he  sat  in  his  own  room,  which  was  on 
the  other  side  of  the  studio  from  Angelas,  and  did  not  sleep. 
His  mind  was  on  fire  with  the  thought  of  Suzanne;  he  thought 
of  the  old  order  which  had  been  so  quickly  and  so  terribly  bro- 


THE    "GENIUS'  579 

ken.  Now,  if  he  could  remain  master,  and  he  could,  he  proposed 
to  take  Suzanne.  She  would  come  to  him,  secretly  no  doubt,  if 
necessary.  They  would  open  a  studio,  a  second  establishment. 
Angela  might  not  give  him  a  divorce.  If  what  she  said  was  true, 
she  couldn't.  He  wouldn't  want  her  to,  but  he  fancied  from  this 
conversation  that  she  was  so  afraid  of  him  that  she  would  not 
stir  up  any  trouble.  There  wTas  nothing  she  could  really  do. 
He  wras  in  the  saddle  truly,  and  would  stay  there.  He  would 
take  Suzanne,  would  provide  amply  for  Angela,  would  visit  all 
those  lovely  public  resorts  he  had  so  frequently  seen,  and  he  and 
Suzanne  would  be  happy  together. 

Suzanne!  Suzanne!  Oh,  how  beautiful  she  was!  And  to 
think  how  nobly  and  courageously  she  had  stood  by  him  tonight. 
How  she  had  slipped  her  hand  into  his  so  sweetly  and  had  said, 
"But  I  love  him,  Mrs.  Witla."  Yes,  she  loved  him.  No  doubt 
of  that.  She  was  young,  exquisite,  beautifully  rounded  in  her 
budding  emotion  and  feeling.  She  was  going  to  develop  into  a 
wonderful  woman,  a  real  one.  And  she  was  so  young.  What  a 
pity  it  was  he  was  not  free  now!  Well,  wait,  this  would  right 
all  things,  and,  meanwhile,  he  would  have  her.  He  must  talk  to 
Suzanne.  He  must  tell  her  how  things  stood.  Poor  little  Su- 
zanne! There  she  was  in  her  room  wondering  what  was  to 
become  of  her,  and  here  was  he.  Well,  he  couldn't  go  to  her 
tonight.  It  did  not  look  right,  and,  besides,  Angela  might  fight 
still.  But  tomorrow!  Tomorrow!  Oh,  tomorrow  he  would 
walk  and  talk  with  her,  and  they  would  plan.  Tomorrow  he 
would  show  her  just  what  l^e  wanted  to  do  and  find  out  what  she 
could  do. 


CHAPTER  XI 

THIS  night  passed  without  additional  scenes,  though  as  it  stood 
it  was  the  most  astonishing  and  tremendous  in  all  Eugene's 
experience.  He  had,  not  up  to  the  time  Angela  walked  into 
the  room,  really  expected  anything  so  dramatic  and  climacteric 
to  happen,  though  what  he  did  expect  was  never  really  very 
clear  to  him.  At  times  as  he  lay  and  thought  now  he  fancied 
that  he  might  eventually  have  to  give  Suzanne  up,  though  how, 
or  when,  or  why,  he  could  not  say.  He  was  literally  crazed  by 
her,  and  could  not  think  that  such  a  thing  could  really  be.  At 
other  moments  he  fancied  that  powers  outside  of  this  visible  life, 
the  life  attested  by  the  five  senses,  had  arranged  this  beautiful 
finish  to  his  career  for  him  so  that  he  might  be  perfectly  happy. 
All  his  life  he  had  fancied  that  he  was  leading  a  more  or  less 
fated  life,  principally  more.  He  thought  that  his  art  was  a  gift, 
that  he  had  in  a  way  been  sent  to  revolutionize  art  in  America, 
or  carry  it  one  step  farther  forward  and  that  nature  was  thus 
constantly  sending  its  apostles  or  special  representatives  over 
whom  it  kept  watch  and  in  whom  it  was  well  pleased.  At  other 
times  he  fancied  he  might  be  the  sport  or  toy  of  untoward  and 
malicious  powers,  such  as  those  which  surrounded  and  accom- 
plished Macbeth's  tragic  end,  and  which  might  be  intending  to 
make  an  illustration  of  him.  As  he  looked  at  life  at  times,  it 
seemed  to  do  this  with  certain  people.  The  fates  lied.  Lovely, 
blandishing  lures  were  held  out  only  to  lead  men  to  destruction. 
He  had  seen  other  men  who  seemed  to  have  been  undone  in  this 
way.  Was  he  to  be  so  treated? 

Angela's  unexpected  and  peculiar  announcement  made  it  look 
that  way.  Still  he  did  not  believe  it.  Life  had  sent  Suzanne 
across  his  path  for  a  purpose.  The  fates  or  powers  had  seen  he 
was  miserable  and  unhappy.  Being  a  favorite  child  of  Heaven, 
he  was  to  be  rewarded  for  his  sufferings  by  having  her.  She  was 
here  now — quickly,  forcefully  thrust  into  his  arms,  so  to  speak, 
so  that  perhaps  he  might  have  her  all  the  more  quickly.  How 
silly  it  seemed  to  him  now  to  have  brought  her  into  his  own 
apartment  to  make  love  to  her  and  get  caught,  and  yet  how  for- 
tunate, too,  the  hand  of  fate !  No  doubt  it  was  intended.  Any- 
how, the  shame  to  him,  the  shame  to  Angela  and  Suzanne,  the 
terrific  moments  and  hours  that  each  was  enduring  now — 
these  were  things  which  were  unfortunately  involved  in  any 

580 


THE    "GENIUS"  581 

necessarily  great  readjustment.  It  was  probable  that  it  had 
to  come  about  this  way.  It  was  better  so  than  to  go  on 
living  an  unhappy  life.  He  was  really  fitted  for  something 
better,  he  thought — a  great  career.  He  would  have  to  adjust 
this  thing  with  Angela  in  some  way  now,  either  leave  her,  or 
make  some  arrangement  whereby  he  could  enjoy  the  company  of 
Suzanne  uninterrupted.  There  must  be  no  interference.  He 
did  not  propose  to  give  her  up.  The  child  might  come.  Well 
and  good.  He  would  provide  for  it,  that  would  be  all.  He  re- 
called now  the  conversation  he  had  had  with  Suzanne  in  which 
she  had  said  that  she  would  live  with  him  if  she  could.  The 
time  had  come.  Their  plan  for  a  studio  should  now  be  put  into 
effect.  It  must  be  secret.  Angela  would  not  care.  She  could 
not  help  herself.  If  only  the  events  of  this  night  did  not  ter- 
rorize Suzanne  into  retracing  her  steps!  He  had  not  explained 
to  her  how  he  was  to  get  rid  of  Angela  apart  from  what  she  had 
heard  this  night.  She  was  thinking,  he  knew,  that  they  could 
go  on  loving  each  other  in  this  tentative  fashion,  occupying  a 
studio  together,  perhaps,  not  caring  what  the  world  thought,  not 
caring  what  her  mother  thought,  ignoring  her  brother  and  sister 
and  Angela,  and  being  happy  with  Eugene  only.  He  had  never 
tried  to  disillusion  her.  He  was  not  thinking  clearly  himself. 
He  was  rushing  forward  in  an  aimless  way,  desiring  the  com- 
panionship of  her  beautiful  mind  and  body.  Now  he  saw  he 
must  act  or  lose  her.  He  must  convince  her  in  the  face  of  what 
Angela  had  said,  or  let  her  go.  She  would  probably  be  willing 
to  come  to  him  rather  than  leave  him  entirely.  He  must  talk, 
explain,  make  her  understand  just  what  a  trick  this  all  was. 

Angela  had  not  slept,  but  lay  staring  at  the  ceiling  in  the  dark, 
her  eyes  a  study  in  despair.  When  morning  came  they  were 
none  of  them  further  along  in  their  conclusions  than  they  were 
the  night  before,  save  to  know,  each  separately  and  distinctly, 
that  a  great  tragedy  or  change  was  at  hand.  Suzanne  had 
thought  and  thought,  or  tried  to,  but  the  impulse  of  blood  and 
passion  in  her  were  Eugeneward  and  she  could  only  see  the 
situation  from  their  own  point  of  view.  She  loved  him,  she 
thought — must  love  him,  since  he  was  so  ready  to  sacrifice  so 
much  for  her;  yet  at  the  same  time  there  was  a  strange,  dis- 
concerting nebulosity  about  her  which,  had  Eugene  fully  realized 
it  at  this  moment,  would  have  terrified  him.  In  her  state,  which 
was  one  of  wondering  delight  at  the  beauty  of  life  and  love — a 
fatalistic  security  in  the  thought  that  joy  was  to  come  to  her 
throughout  life — much  joy.  She  could  not  see  the  grimness  of 
Eugene's  position.  She  could  not  understand  the  agony  of  a 


582  THE   "GENIUS" 

soul  that  had  never  really  tasted  supreme  bliss  in  love,  and  had 
wanted,  however  foolishly,  the  accessories  of  wealth,  and  had 
never  had  them.  Terrorized  lest  after  the  first  sip  of  so  won- 
derful a  joy  it  should  be  removed  forever,  Eugene  was  tingling 
in  the  dark  of  his  own  room — tingling  and  yet  reaching,  almost 
with  outstretched  hands,  to  the  splendor  of  the  life  that  was 
seemingly  before  him.  Suzanne,  however,  to  whom  life  had  given 
so  much,  was  resting  in  a  kind  of  still  ease,  like  that  which  might 
fill  a  drowsy  poppyland  of  joy  where  all  the  pleasures  had  been 
attained  and  were  being  tasted  at  leisure.  Life  at  its  worst  to 
her  was  not  so  bad.  Witness  this  storm  which  had  been  quelled 
in  part  by  Eugene  and  was  like  to  blow  over  as  nothing  at  all. 
Things  came  round  of  their  own  accord  in  time,  if  one  let 
them.  She  had  always  felt  so  sure  that  whatever  happened  no 
ill  would  befall  her,  and  here  she  was  courted  and  protected  by 
Eugene  even  in  his  own  home ! 

In  this  situation,  therefore,  she  was  not  grieving  either  for  Eu- 
gene, for  Angela,  or  for  herself.  She  could  not.  Some  disposi- 
tions are  so.  Eugene  was  able  to  take  care  of  himself  and  her 
and  Angela  financially,  she  thought.  She  was  really  looking  for- 
ward to  that  better  day  when  this  misalliance  should  be  broken 
up,  and  Eugene  and  presumably  Angela  would  be  really  happier. 
She  wanted  Eugene  to  be  much  happier,  and  Angela,  for  that 
matter — and  through  her,  if  possible,  since  Eugene's  happiness 
seemed  to  depend  on  her.  But  unlike  Eugene,  she  wras  already 
thinking  that  she  could  live  well  enough  without  him,  if  it  must 
be.  She  did  not  want  to.  She  felt  that  her  greatest  happiness 
would  be  in  repaying  him  for  past  ills  and  pains ;  but  if  they  must 
part  for  a  time,  for  instance,  it  would  not  make  so  much  differ- 
ence. Time  would  bring  them  together.  But  if  it  didn't 

But  it  would.  Why  think  otherwise?  But  how  wonderful  it 
was  that  her  beauty,  her  mere  physical  beauty,  which  seemed 
unimportant  to  her,  made  him  so  wild.  She  could  not  know  of 
the  actual  physical  pain  gnawing  at  his  vitals,  but  it  was  so  plain 
that  he  was  madly  stricken  writh  her.  His  whole  face  and  his 
burning  black  eyes  riveted  on  her  in  intense  delight  and  almost 
agony  proved  it.  Was  she  so  beautiful?  Surely  not!  Yet  he 
yearned  over  her  so.  And  it  was  so  delightful. 

She  arose  at  dawn  and  began  silently  to  dress,  thinking  that 
she  might  take  a  walk,  leaving  a  note  for  Eugene  as  to  where  to 
come  and  find  her  if  he  could.  She  had  one  appointment  for  the 
day.  Later  she  would  have  to  go  home,  but  things  would  come 
out  all  right.  Since  Eugene  had  compelled  Angela  to  relinquish 
her  determination  to  inform  her  mother,  all  must  be  well.  They 


THE   "GENIUS"  583 

would  meet,  she  and  Eugene.  She  would  leave  her  home  and  be 
his  and  they  would  go  anywhere,  anywhere  Eugene  desired,  only 
she  would  prefer  to  persuade  her  mother  to  see  things  from  her 
point  of  view  and  later  countenance  some  understanding  between 
them  here.  Because  of  Angela's  and  Eugene's  position  here,  she 
preferred  this.  Because  of  her  youth  and  her  poetic,  erratic  con- 
ception of  life,  she  assumed  that  she  could  overcome  her  mother 
and  that  she  and  Eugene  could  live  together  somewhere  in  peace. 
Her  friends  might  either  be  unaware  of  the  situation,  or  they 
could  be  told,  some  of  them,  and  they  might  countenance  it  be- 
cause it  was  so  beautiful  and  natural! 

Eugene  heard  her  stirring  after  a  time,  and  rose  and  went  to 
her  room  and  knocked.  When  she  opened  the  door  almost  fully 
dressed  a  thrill  of  pain  passed  over  his  heart,  for  he  thought  that 
she  had  been  intending  to  slip  away  without  seeing  him  any  more 
— so  little  they  really  knew  each  other.  But  as  she  stood  there, 
a  little  cool  or  still  or  sober  from  much  thought  and  the  pe- 
culiar nature  of  her  position,  she  seemed  more  beautiful  than 
ever. 

" You're  not  going,  are  you?"  he  asked,  as  she  looked  up  at 
him  with  inquiring  eyes. 

"I  thought  I'd  go  for  a  walk." 

"Without  me?" 

"I  intended  to  see  you,  if  I  could,  or  leave  a  note  for  you  to 
come  to  me.  I  thought  you  would." 

"Will  you  wait  for  me?"  he  asked,  feeling  as  though  he  must 
hold  her  close  forever  in  order  to  live.  "Just  a  little  bit.  I  want 
to  change  my  clothes."  He  took  her  in  his  arms. 

"Yes,"  she  said  softly. 

"You  won't  go  without  me?" 

"No.    Why  do  you  ask?" 

"Oh,  I  love  you  so!"  he  replied,  and  pushed  her  head  back 
and  looked  yearningly  into  her  eyes. 

She  took  his  tired  face  between  her  hands  and  studied  his  eyes. 
She  was  so  enrapt  by  him  now  in  this  first  burst  of  affection 
that  she  could  see  nothing  but  him.  He  seemed  so  beautiful,  so 
hungry !  It  did  not  matter  to  her  now  that  she  was  in  the  home 
of  his  wife  or  that  his  love  was  complicated  with  so  much  that 
was  apparently  evil.  She  loved  him.  She  had  thought  all  night 
about  him,  not  sleeping.  Being  so  young,  it  was  hard  for  her 
to  reason  clearly  as  yet,  but  somehow  it  seemed  to  her  that  he 
was  very  unhappily  placed,  terribly  ill-mated,  and  that  he  needed 
her.  He  was  so  fine,  so  clean,  so  capable!  If  he  did  not  want 
Angela,  why  should  she  want  him?  She  would  not  be  suffering 


§84  THE    "GENIUS" 

for  anything  save  his  company,  and  why  should  she  want  to  hold 
him?  She,  Suzanne,  would  not,  if  she  were  in  Angela's  place. 
If  there  were  a  child,  would  that  make  any  real  difference?  He 
did  not  love  her. 

"Don't  worry  about  me,"  she  said  reassuringly.  "I  love  you. 
Don't  you  know  I  do?  I  have  to  talk  to  you.  We  have  to 
talk.  How  is  Mrs.  Witla?" 

She  was  thinking  about  what  Mrs.  Witla  would  do,  whether 
she  would  call  up  her  mother,  whether  her  struggle  to  have  Eu- 
gene would  begin  at  once. 

"Oh,  she's  about  the  same!"  he  said  wearily.  "We've  had  a 
long  argument.  I've  told  her  just  what  I  propose  to  do,  but 
I'll  tell  you  about  that  later." 

He  went  away  to  change  his  clothes,  and  then  stepped  into 
Angela's  room. 

"I'm  going  to  walk  with  Suzanne,"  he  said  dominantly,  when 
he  was  ready. 

"All  right,"  said  Angela,  who  was  so  tired  she  could  have 
fainted.  "Will  you  be  back  for  dinner?" 

"I  don't  know,"  he  replied.     "What  difference  does  it  make?" 

"Only  this:  that  the  maid  and  cook  need  not  stay  unless  you 
are  coming.  I  want  nothing." 

"When  will  the  nurse  be  here?" 

"At  seven." 

"Well,  you  can  prepare  dinner,  if  you  wish,"  he  said.  "I  will 
try  and  be  back  by  four." 

He  walked  toward  the  studio  where  Suzanne  was,  and  found 
her  waiting,  white-faced,  slightly  Hollow-eyed,  but  strong  and 
confident.  Now,  as  so  often  before,  he  noticed  that  spirit  of 
self-sufficiency  and  reliance  about  her  young  body  which  had 
impressed  him  so  forcibly  and  delightfully  in  the  past.  She  was 
a  wonderful  girl,  this  Suzanne,  full  of  grit  and  ability,  although 
raised  under  what  might  have  been  deemed  enervating  circum- 
stances. Her  statement,  made  under  pressure  the  night  before, 
that  she  must  go  to  a  hotel  and  not  go  home  until  she  could 
straighten  out  her  affairs,  had  impressed  him  greatly.  Why  had 
she  thought  of  going  out  in  the  world  to  work  for  herself  unless 
there  were  something  really  fine  about  her?  She  was  heir  to  a 
fortune  under  her  father's  will,  he  had  heard  her  mother  say 
once.  This  morning  her  glance  was  so  assured.  He  did  not  use 
the  phone  to  call  a  car,  but  strolled  out  into  the  drive  with  her 
walking  along  the  stone  wall  which  commanded  the  river  north- 
ward toward  Grant's  Tomb.  It  occurred  to  him  that  they  might 
go  to  Claremont  Inn  for  breakfast,  and  afterwards  take  a  car 


THE    "GENIUS"  583 

somewhere — he  did  not  know  quite  where.  Suzanne  might  be 
recognized.  So  might  he. 

"What  shall  we  do,  sweet  ?"  he  asked,  as  the  cool  morning  air 
brushed  their  faces.  It  was  a  glorious  day. 

"I  don't  care,"  replied  Suzanne.  "I  promised  to  be  at  the 
Almerdings  some  time  today,  but  I  didn't  say  when.  They  won't 
think  anything  of  it  if  I  don't  get  there  till  after  dinner.  Will 
Mrs.  Witla  call  up  mama?" 

"I  don't  think  so.  In  fact,  I'm  sure  she  won't."  He  was 
thinking  of  his  last  conversation  with  Angela,  when  she  said  she 
would  do  nothing.  "Is  your  mother  likely  to  call  you  up?" 

"I  think  not.  Mama  doesn't  usually  bother  when  she  knows 
where  I  am  going.  If  she  does,  they'll  simply  say  I  haven't  come 
yet.  Will  Mrs.  Witla  tell  her,  if  she  calls  up  there?" 

"I  think  not,"  he  said.  "No,  I'm  sure  she  won't.  Angela 
wants  time  to  think.  She  isn't  going  to  do  anything.  She  told 
me  that  this  morning.  She's  going  to  wait  until  she  sees  what  I 
am  going  to  do.  It  all  depends  now  on  how  we  play  our  cards." 

He  strolled  on,  looking  at  the  river  and  holding  Suzanne's 
hand.  It  was  only  a  quarter  to  seven  and  the  drive  was  com- 
paratively empty. 

"If  she  tells  mama,  it  will  make  things  very  bad,"  said  Su- 
zanne thoughtfully.  "Do  you  really  think  she  won't?" 

"I'm  sure  she  won't.  I'm  positive.  She  doesn't  want  to  do 
anything  yet.  It's  too  dangerous.  I  think  she  thinks  that  maybe 
I  will  come  round.  Oh,  what  a  life  I've  led!  It  seems  like  a 
dream,  now  that  I  have  your  love.  You  are  so  different,  so 
generous!  Your  attitude  is  so  unselfish!  To  have  been  ruled 
all  these  years  in  every  little  thing.  This  last  trick  of  hers!" 

He  shook  his  head  woefully.  Suzanne  looked  at  his  weary 
face,  her  own  as  fresh  as  the  morning. 

"Oh,  if  I  might  only  have  had  you  to  begin  with !"  he  added. 

"Listen,  Eugene,"  said  Suzanne.  "You  know  I  feel  sorry 
for  Mrs.  Witla.  We  shouldn't  have  done  what  we  did  last 
night,  but  you  made  me.  You  know  you  will  never  listen  to  me, 
until  it's  too  late.  You're  so  headstrong!  I  don't  want  you  to 
leave  Mrs.  Witla  unless  you  want  to.  You  needn't  for  me.  I 
don't  want  to  marry  you;  not  now,  anyhow.  I'd  rather  just 
give  myself  to  you,  if  you  want  me  to.  I  want  time  though,  to 
think  and  plan.  If  mama  should  hear  today,  there  would  be  a 
terrible  time.  If  we  have  time  to  think,  we  may  bring  her 
round.  I  don't  care  anything  about  what  Mrs.  Witla  told  you 
last  night.  I  don't  want  you  to  leave  her.  If  we  could  just 
arrange  some  way.  It's  mama,  you  know." 


586  THE    "GENIUS" 

She  swung  his  hand  softly  in  hers,  pressing  his  fingers.  She 
was  deep  in  thought,  for  her  mother  presented  a  real  problem. 

"You  know,"  she  went  on,  "mama  isn't  narrow.  She  doesn't 
believe  much  in  marriage  unless  it's  ideal.  Mrs.  Witla's  con- 
dition wouldn't  make  so  much  difference  if  only  the  child  were 
here.  I've  been  thinking  about  that.  Mama  might  sanction 
some  arrangement  if  she  thought  it  would  make  me  happy  and 
there  was  no  scandal.  But  I'll  have  to  have  time  to  talk  to  her. 
It  can't  be  done  right  away." 

Eugene  listened  to  this  with  considerable  surprise,  as  he  did 
to  everything  Suzanne  volunteered.  She  seemed  to  have  been 
thinking  about  these  questions  a  long  time.  She  was  not  free 
with  her  opinions.  She  hesitated  and  halted  between  words  and 
in  her  cogitations,  but  when  they  were  out  this  was  what  they 
came  to.  He  wondered  how  sound  they  were. 

"Suzanne,"  he  said,  "you  take  my  breath  away!  How  you 
think!  Do  you  know  what  you're  talking  about?  Do  you  know 
your  mother  at  all  well?" 

"Mama?  Oh,  yes,  I  think  I  understand  mama.  You  know 
she's  very  peculiar.  Mama  is  literary  and  romantic.  She  talks 
a  great  deal  about  liberty,  but  I  don't  take  in  everything  she  says. 
I  think  mama  is  different  from  most  women — she's  exceptional. 
She  likes  me,  not  so  much  as  a  daughter  as  a  person.  She's 
anxious  about  me.  You  know,  I  think  I'm  stronger  than  mama. 
I  think  I  could  dominate  her  if  I  tried.  She  leans  on  me  now 
a  lot,  and  she  can't  make  me  do  anything  unless  I  want  to.  I 
can  make  her  come  to  my  way  of  thinking,  I  believe.  I  have, 
lots  of  times.  That's  what  makes  me  think  I  might  now,  if  I 
have  time.  It  will  take  time  to  get  her  to  do  what  I  want." 

"How  much  time?"  asked  Eugene  thoughtfully. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know.  Three  months.  Six  months.  I  can't 
tell.  I  would  like  to  try,  though." 

"And  if  you  can't,  then  what?" 

"Why,  then — why,  then  I'll  defy  her,  that's  all.  I'm  not  sure, 
you  know.  But  I  think  I  can." 

"And  if  you  can't?" 

"But  I  can.    I'm  sure  I  can."    She  tossed  her  head  gaily. 

"And  come  to  me?" 

"And  come  to  you." 

They  were  near  One  Hundredth  Street,  under  the  trees. 
There  was  a  lone  man  some  distance  away,  walking  from  them. 
Eugene  caught  Suzanne  in  his  arms  and  implanted  a  kiss  upon 
her  mouth.  "Oh,  you  divinity!"  he  exclaimed.  "Helen! 
Circe!" 


THE    "  GENIUS'  587 

"No,"  she  replied,  with  smiling  eyes.  "No,  not  here.  Wait 
till  we  get  a  car." 

"Shall  we  go  to  Claremont?" 

"I'm  not  hungry." 

"Then  we  might  as  well  call  a  car  and  ride." 

They  hunted  a  garage  and  sped  northward,  the  wonderful 
wind  of  the  morning  cooling  and  refreshing  their  fevered  senses. 
Both  he  and  Suzanne  were  naturally  depressed  at  moments,  at 
other  moments  preternaturally  gay,  for  he  was  varying  between 
joy  and  fear,  and  she  was  buoying  him  up.  Her  attitude  was 
calmer,  surer,  braver,  than  his.  She  was  like  a  strong  mother 
to  him. 

"You  know,"  he  said,  "I  don't  know  what  to  think  at  times. 
I  haven't  any  particular  charge  against  Mrs.  Witla  except  that  I 
don't  love  her.  I  have  been  so  unhappy.  What  do  you  think 
of  cases  of  this  kind,  Suzanne?  You  heard  what  she  said  about 
me." 

"Yes,  I  heard." 

"It  all  comes  from  that.  I  don't  love  her.  I  never  have  really 
from  the  beginning.  What  do  you  think  where  there  is  no  love  ? 
It  is  true,  part  of  what  she  said.  I  have  been  in  love  with  other 
women,  but  it  has  always  been  because  I  have  been  longing  for 
some  sort  of  temperament  that  was  congenial  to  me.  I  have, 
Suzanne,  too,  since  I  have  been  married.  I  can't  say  that  I  was 
really  in  love  with  Carlotta  Wilson,  but  I  did  like  her.  She 
was  very  much  like  myself.  The  other  was  a  girl  somewhat  like 
you.  Not  so  wise.  That  was  years  ago.  Oh,  I  could  tell  you 
why!  I  love  youth.  I  love  beauty.  I  want  someone  who  is 
my  companion  mentally.  You  are  that,  Suzanne,  and  yet  see 
what  a  hell  it  is  creating.  Do  you  think  it  is  so  bad  where  I 
am  so  very  unhappy?  Tell  me,  what  do  you  think?" 

"Why,  why,"  said  Suzanne,  "I  don't  think  anyone  ought  to 
stick  by  a  bad  bargain,  Eugene." 

"Just  what  do  you  mean  by  that,  Suzanne?" 

"Well,  you  say  you  don't  love  her.  You're  not  happy  with 
her.  I  shouldn't  think  it  would  be  good  for  her  or  you  to  have 
you  stay  with  her.  She  can  live.  I  wouldn't  want  you  to  stay 
with  me  if  you  didn't  love  me.  I  wouldn't  want  you  at  all  if 
you  didn't.  I  wouldn't  want  to  stay  with  you  if  I  didn't  love 
you,  and  I  wouldn't.  I  think  marriage  ought  to  be  a  happy 
bargain,  and  if  it  isn't  you  oughtn't  to  try  to  stay  together  just 
because  you  thought  you  could  stay  together  once." 

"What  if  there  were  children?" 

"Well,  that  might  be  different.     Even  then,  one  or  the  other 


588  THE    "GENIUS" 

could  take  them,  wouldn't  you  think?    The  children  needn't  be 
made  very  unhappy  in  such  a  case." 

Eugene  looked  at  Suzanne's  lovely  face.  It  seemed  so  strange 
to  hear  her  reasoning  so  solemnly — this  girl ! 

"But  you  heard  what  she  said  about  me,  Suzanne,  and  about 
her  condition  ?" 

"I  know,"  she  said.  "I've  thought  about  it.  I  don't  see  that 
it  makes  so  very  much  difference.  You  can  take  care  of  her." 

"You  love  me  just  as  much  ?" 

"Yes." 

"Even  if  all  she  says  is  true?" 

"Yes." 

"Why,  Suzanne?" 

"Well,  all  her  charges  concerned  years  gone  by,  and  that  isn't 
now.  And  I  know  you  love  me  now.  I  don't  care  about  the  past. 
You  know,  Eugene,  I  don't  care  anything  about  the  future, 
either.  I  want  you  to  love  me  only  so  long  as  you  want  to  love 
me.  When  you  are  tired  of  me,  I  want  you  to  leave  me. 
wouldn't  want  you  to  live  with  me  if  you  didn't  love  me.  I 
wouldn't  want  to  live  with  you  if  I  didn't  love  you." 

Eugene  looked  into  her  face,  astonished,  pleased,  invigorated, 
and  heartened  by  this  philosophy.  It  was  so  like  Suzanne,  he 
thought.  She  seemed  to  have  reached  definite  and  effective  con- 
clusions so  early.  Her  young  mind  seemed  a  solvent  for  all  life's 
difficulties. 

"Oh,  you  wonderful  girl!"  he  said.  "You  know  you  are 
wiser  than  I  am,  stronger.  I  draw  to  you,  Suzanne,  like  a  cold 
man  to  a  fire.  You  are  so  kindly,  so  temperate,  so  understand- 
ing!" 

They  rode  on  toward  Tarrytown  and  Scarborough,  and  on 
the  way  Eugene  told  Suzanne  some  of  his  plans.  He  was  willing 
not  to  leave  Angela,  if  that  was  agreeable  to  her.  He  was  will- 
ing to  maintain  this  outward  show,  if  that  was  satisfactory.  The 
only  point  was,  could  he  stay  and  have  her,  too  ?  He  did  not  un- 
derstand quite  how  she  could  want  to  share  him  with  anybody, 
but  he  could  not  fathom  her  from  any  point  of  view,  and  he  was 
fascinated.  She  seemed  the  dearest,  the  subtlest,  the  strangest 
and  most  lovable  girl.  He  tried  to  find  out  by  what  process  she 
proposed  to  overcome  the  objections  of  her  mother,  but  Suzanne 
seemed  to  have  no  plans  save  that  of  her  ability  to  gradually 
get  the  upper  hand  mentally  and  dominate  her.  "You  know," 
she  said  at  one  point,  "I  have  money  coming  to  me.  Papa  set 
aside  two  hundred  thousand  dollars  for  each  of  us  children  when 


THE    "GENIUS1  589 

we  should  come  of  age,  and  I  am  of  age  now.  It  is  to  be  held 
in  trust,  but  I  shall  have  twelve  thousand  or  maybe  more  from 
that.  We  can  use  that.  I  am  of  age  now,  and  I  have  never  said 
anything  about  it.  Mama  has  managed  all  these  things." 

Here  was  another  thought  which  heartened  Eugene.  With 
Suzanne  he  would  have  this  additional  income,  which  might  be 
used  whatever  else  might  betide.  If  only  Angela  could  be  made 
to  accept  his  conditions  and  Suzanne  could  win  in  her  contest 
with  her  mother  all  would  be  well.  His  position  need  not  be 
jeopardized.  Mrs.  Dale  need  hear  nothing  of  it  at  present.  He 
and  Suzanne  could  go  on  associating  in  this  way  until  an  under- 
standing had  been  reached.  It  was  all  like  a  delightful  court- 
ship which  was  to  bloom  into  a  still  more  delightful  marriage. 

The  day  passed  in  assurances  of  affection.  Suzanne  told  Eu- 
gene of  a  book  she  had  read  in  French,  "The  Blue  Bird."  The 
allegory  touched  Eugene  to  the  quick — its  quest  for  happiness, 
and  he  named  Suzanne  then  and  there  "The  Blue  Bird."  She 
made  him  stop  the  car  and  go  back  to  get  her  an  exquisite  laven- 
der-hued  blossom  growing  wild  on  a  tall  stalk  which  she  saw 
in  a  field  as  they  sped  by.  Eugene  objected  genially,  because  it 
was  beyond  a  wire  fence  and  set  among  thorns,  but  she  said, 
"Yes,  now,  you  must.  You  know  you  must  obey  me  now.  I  am 
going  to  begin  to  train  you  now.  You've  been  spoiled.  You're 
a  bad  boy.  Mama  says  that.  I  am  going  to  reform  you." 

"A  sweet  time  you'll  have,  Flower  Face!  I'm  a  bad  lot. 
Have  you  noticed  that?" 

"A  little." 

"And  you  still  like  me?" 

"I  don't  mind.     I  think  I  can  change  you  by  loving  you." 

Eugene  went  gladly.  He  plucked  the  magnificent  bloom  and 
handed  it  to  her  "as  a  sceptre,"  he  said.  "It  looks  like  you,  you 
know,"  he  added.  "It's  regal." 

Suzanne  accepted  the  compliment  without  thought  of  its  flar- 
tering  import.  She  loved  Eugene,  and  words  had  scarcely  any 
meaning  to  her.  She  was  as  happy  as  a  child  and  as  wise  in 
many  things  as  a  woman  twice  her  years.  She  was  as  foolish  as 
Eugene  over  the  beauty  of  nature,  dwelling  in  an  ecstasy  upon 
morning  and  evening  skies,  the  feel  of  winds  and  the  sigh  of 
leaves.  The  beauties  of  nature  at  every  turn  caught  her  eye, 
and  she  spoke  to  him  of  things  she  felt  in  such  a  simple  way  that 
he  was  entranced. 

Once  when  they  had  left  the  car  and  were  walking  about  the 
grounds  of  an  inn,  she  found  that  one  of  her  silk  stockings  had 


590  THE    "GENIUS" 

worn  through  at  the  heel.  She  lifted  up  her  foot  and  looked  at 
it  meditatively.  "Now,  if  I  had  some  ink  I  could  fix  that  up  so 
quickly,"  she  said,  laughing. 

"What  would  you  do?"  he  asked. 

"I  would  black  it,"  she  replied,  referring  to  her  pink  heel,  "or 
you  could  paint  it." 

He  laughed  and  she  giggled.  It  was  these  little,  idle  simplici- 
ties which  amused  and  fascinated  him. 

"Suzanne,"  he  said  dramatically  at  this  time,  "you  are  taking 
me  back  into  fairyland." 

"I  want  to  make  you  happy,"  she  said,  "as  happy  as  I  am." 

"If  I  could  be!     If  I  only  could  be!" 

"Wait,"  she  said;  "be  cheerful.  Don't  worry.  Everything 
will  come  out  all  right.  I  know  it  will.  Things  always  come 
right  for  me.  I  want  you  and  you  will  come  to  me.  You  will 
have  me  just  as  I  wrill  have  you.  Oh,  it  is  all  so  beautiful!" 

She  squeezed  his  hand  in  an  ecstasy  of  delight  and  then  gave 
him  her  lips. 

"What  if  someone  should  see?"  he  asked. 

"I  don't  care !    I  don't  care !"  she  cried.    "I  love  you !" 


CHAPTER  XII 

AFTER  dining  joyously,  these  two  returned  to  the  city. 
Suzanne,  as  she  neared  New  York  proper,  was  nervous  as 
to  what  Angela  might  have  done,  for  she  wanted,  in  case  An- 
gela told  her  mother,  to  be  present,  in  order  to  defend  herself. 
She  had  reached  a  rather  logical  conclusion  for  her,  and  that  was, 
in  case  her  mother  objected  too  vigorously,  to  elope  with  Eu- 
gene. She  wanted  to  see  just  how  her  mother  would  take  the 
intelligence  in  order  that  she  might  see  clearly  what  to  do. 
Previously  she  had  the  feeling  that  she  could  persuade  her 
mother  not  to  interfere,  even  in  the  face  of  all  that  had  been 
revealed.  Nevertheless,  she  was  nervous,  and  her  fears  were  bred 
to  a  certain  extent  by  Eugene's  attitude. 

In  spite  of  all  his  bravado,  he  really  did  not  feel  at  all  secure. 
He  was  not  afraid  of  what  he  might  lose  materially  so  much  as 
he  was  of  losing  Suzanne.  The  thought  of  the  coming  child 
had  not  affected  them  at  all  as  yet.  He  could  see  clearly  that 
conditions  might  come  about  whereby  he  could  not  have  her,  but 
they  were  not  in  evidence  as  yet.  Besides,  Angela  might  be  ly- 
ing. Still  at  odd  moments  his  conscience  troubled  him,  for  in 
the  midst  of  his  intense  satisfaction,  his  keenest  thrills  of  joy, 
he  could  see  Angela  lying  in  bed,  the  thought  of  her  wretched 
future  before  her,  the  thought  of  the  coming  life  troubling  her, 
or  he  could  hear  the  echo  of  some  of  the  pleas  she  had  made.  It 
was  useless  to  attempt  to  shut  them  out.  This  was  a  terrible 
ordeal  he  was  undergoing,  a  ruthless  thing  he  was  doing.  All  the 
laws  of  life  and  public  sentiment  were  against  him.  If  the 
world  knew,  it  would  accuse  him  bitterly.  He  could  not  forget 
that.  He  despaired  at  moments  of  ever  being  able  to  solve  the 
tangle  in  which  he  had  involved  himself,  and  yet  he  was  deter- 
mined to  go  on.  He  proposed  accompanying  Suzanne  to  her 
friends,  the  Almerdings,  but  she  changed  her  mind  and  decided 
to  go  home.  "I  want  to  see  whether  mama  has  heard  anything," 
she  insisted. 

Eugene  had  to  escort  her  to  Staten  Island  and  then  order  the 
chauffeur  to  put  on  speed  so  as  to  reach  Riverside  by  four.  He 
was  somewhat  remorseful,  but  he  argued  that  his  love-life  was 
so  long  over,  in  so  far  as  Angela  was  concerned,  that  it  could  not 
really  make  so  very  much  difference.  Since  Suzanne  wanted  to 
wait  a  little  time  and  proceed  slowly,  it  was  not  going  to  be  as 


592  THE    "GENIUS" 

bad  for  Angela  as  he  had  anticipated.  He  was  going  to  give 
her  a  choice  of  going  her  way  and  leaving  him  entirely,  either 
now,  or  after  the  child  was  born,  giving  her  the  half  of  his 
property,  stocks,  ready  money,  and  anything  else  that  might  be 
divisible,  and  all  the  furniture,  or  staying  and  tacitly  ignoring 
the  whole  thing.  She  would  know  what  he  was  going  to  do, 
to  maintain  a  separate  menage,  or  secret  rendezvous  for  Su- 
zanne. He  proposed  since  Suzanne  was  so  generous  not  to  de- 
bate this  point,  but  to  insist.  He  must  have  her,  and  Angela 
must  yield,  choosing  only  her  conditions. 

When  he  came  to  the  house,  a  great  change  had  come  over 
Angela.  In  the  morning  when  he  left  she  was  hard  and  bitter 
in  her  mood.  This  afternoon  she  was,  albeit  extremely  sad,  more 
soft  and  melting  than  he  had  ever  seen  her.  Her  hard  spirit  was 
temporarily  broken,  but  in  addition  she  had  tried  to  resign  her- 
self to  the  inevitable  and  to  look  upon  it  as  the  will  of  God. 
Perhaps  she  had  been,  as  Eugene  had  often  accused  her  of  being, 
hard  and  cold.  Perhaps  she  had  held  him  in  too  tight  leading 
strings.  She  had  meant  it  for  the  best.  She  had  tried  to  pray 
for  light  and  guidance,  and  after  a  while  something  softly  sad, 
like  a  benediction,  settled  upon  her.  She  must  not  fight  any 
more,  she  thought.  She  must  yield.  God  would  guide  her. 
Her  smile,  kindly  and  wan,  when  Eugene  entered  the  room,  took 
him  unawares. 

Her  explanation  of  her  mood,  her  prayers,  her  willingness  to 
give  him  up  if  need  be,  even  in  the  face  of  what  was  coming  to 
her,  moved  him  more  than  anything  that  had  ever  passed  be- 
tween them.  He  sat  opposite  her  at  dinner,  looking  at  her  thin 
hands  and  face,  and  her  sad  eyes,  trying  to  be  cheerful  and  con- 
siderate, and  then,  going  back  into  her  room  and  hearing  her 
say  she  would  do  whatever  he  deemed  best,  burst  into  tears.  He 
cried  from  an  excess  of  involuntary  and  uncontrolled  emotion. 
He  hardly  knew  why  he  cried,  but  the  sadness  of  everything— 
life,  the  tangle  of  human  emotions,  the  proximity  of  death  to  all, 
old  age,  Suzanne,  Angela,  all — touched  him,  and  he  shook  as 
though  he  would  rend  his  sides.  Angela,  in  turn,  was  astonished 
and  grieved  for  him.  She  could  scarcely  believe  her  eyes.  Was 
he  repenting?  "Come  to  me,  Eugene!"  she  pleaded.  "Oh,  I'm 
so  sorry!  Are  you  as  much  in  love  as  that?  Oh,  dear,  dear,  if  I 
could  only  do  something!  Don't  cry  like  that,  Eugene.  If  it 
means  so  much  to  you,  I  will  give  you  up.  It  tears  my  heart  to 
hear  you.  Oh,  dear,  please  don't  cry." 

He  laid  his  head  on  his  knees  and  shook,  then  seeing  her  get- 
ting up,  came  over  to  the  bed  to  prevent  her. 


THE   "GENIUS"  593 

"No,  no,"  he  said,  "it  will  pass.  I  can't  help  it.  I'm  sorry 
for  you.  I'm  sorry  for  myself.  I'm  sorry  for  life.  God  will 
punish  me  for  this.  I  can't  help  it,  but  you  are  a  good  woman." 

He  laid  his  head  down  beside  her  and  sobbed,  great,  ach- 
ing sobs.  After  a  time  he  recovered  himself,  only  to  find  that 
he  had  given  Angela  courage  anew.  She  would  think  now  that 
his  love  might  be  recovered  since  he  had  seemed  so  sympathetic; 
that  Suzanne  might  be  displaced.  He  knew  that  could  not  be, 
and  so  he  was  sorry  that  he  had  cried. 

They  went  on  from  that  to  discussion,  to  argument,  to  ill- 
feeling,  to  sympathetic  agreement  again  by  degrees,  only  to  fall 
out  anew.  Angela  could  not  resign  herself  to  the  thought  of 
giving  him  up.  Eugene  could  not  see  that  he  was  called  upon 
to  do  anything,  save  divide  their  joint  possessions.  He  was  most 
anxious  to  have  nothing  to  do  with  Angela  anymore  in  any  way. 
He  might  live  in  the  same  house,  but  that  would  be  all.  He 
was  going  to  have  Suzanne.  He  was  going  to  live  for  her  only. 
He  threatened  Angela  with  dire  consequences  if  she  tried  to  in- 
terfere in  any  way.  If  she  communicated  with  Mrs.  Dale,  or 
said  anything  to  Suzanne,  or  attempted  to  injure  him  commer- 
cially, he  would  leave  her. 

"Here  is  the  situation,"  he  would  insist.  "You  can  maintain 
it  as  I  say,  or  break  it.  If  you  break  it,  you  lose  me  and  every- 
thing that  I  represent.  If  you  maintain  it,  I  will  stay  here.  I 
think  I  will.  I  am  perfectly  willing  to  keep  up  appearances,  but 
I  want  my  freedom." 

Angela  thought  and  thought  of  this.  She  thought  once  of 
sending  for  Mrs.  Dale  and  communicating  with  her  secretly, 
urging  her  to  get  Suzanne  out  of  the  way  without  forewarning 
either  the  girl  or  Eugene,  but  she  did  not  do  this.  It  was  the 
one  thing  she  should  have  done  and  a  thing  Mrs.  Dale  would 
have  agreed  to,  but  fear  and  confusion  deterred  her.  The  next 
thing  was  to  write  or  talk  to  Suzanne,  and  because  she  mistrusted 
her  mood  in  Suzanne's  presence  she  decided  to  write.  She  lay 
in  bed  on  Monday  when  Eugene  was  away  at  the  office  and 
composed  a  long  letter  in  which  she  practically  gave  the  history 
of  Eugene's  life  reiterating  her  own  condition  and  stating  what 
she  thought  Eugene  ought  to  do. 

"How  can  you  think,  Suzanne,"  she  asked  in  one  place,  "that 
he  will  be  true  to  you  when  he  can  ignore  me,  in  this  condition  ? 
He  has  not  been  true  to  anyone  else.  Are  you  going  to  throw 
your  life  away?  Your  station  is  assured  now.  What  can  he 
add  to  you  that  you  have  not  already?  If  you  take  him,  it  is 
sure  to  become  known.  You  are  the  one  who  will  be  injured, 


594  THE    "GENIUS" 

not  he.  Men  recover  from  these  things,  particularly  from  an 
infatuation  of  this  character,  and  the  world  thinks  nothing  of 
it;  but  the  world  will  not  forgive  you.  You  will  be  'a  bad 
woman'  after  this,  irretrievably  so  if  a  child  is  born.  You  think 
you  love  him.  Do  you  really  love  him  this  much?  Read  this 
and  stop  and  think.  Think  of  his  character.  I  am  used  to  him. 
I  made  my  mistakes  in  the  beginning,  and  it  is  too  late  for  me 
to  change.  The  world  can  give  me  nothing.  I  may  have  sor- 
row and  disgust,  but  at  least  I  shall  not  be  an  outcast  and  our 
friends  and  the  world  will  not  be  scandalized.  But  you — you 
have  everything  before  you.  Some  man  will  come  to  you  whom 
you  will  love  and  who  will  not  ask  and  willingly  make  a  sacri- 
fice of  you.  Oh,  I  beg  you  to  think!  You  do  not  need  him. 
After  all,  sorry  as  I  am  to  confess  it,  I  do.  It  is  as  I  tell  you. 
Can  you  really  afford  to  ignore  this  appeal  ?" 

Suzanne  read  this  and  was  greatly  shocked.  Angela  painted 
him  in  a  wretched  light,  as  fickle,  deceitful,  dishonest  in  his  re- 
lations with  women.  She  debated  this  matter  in  her  own  room, 
for  it  could  not  help  but  give  her  pause.  After  a  time,  Eugene's 
face  came  back  to  her,  however,  his  beautiful  mind,  the  atmos- 
phere of  delight  and  perfection  that  seemed  to  envelop  all  that 
surrounded  him.  It  was  as  though  Eugene  were  a  mirage  of 
beauty,  so  soft,  so  sweet,  so  delightful!  Oh,  to  be  with  him;  to 
hear  his  beautiful  voice ;  to  feel  his  intense  caresses !  What  could 
life  offer  her  equal  to  that?  And,  besides,  he  needed  her.  She 
decided  to  talk  it  out  with  him,  show  him  the  letter,  and  then 
decide. 

Eugene  came  in  a  day  or  two,  having  phoned  Monday  and 
Tuesday  mornings.  He  made  a  rendezvous  of  the  ice  house,  and 
then  appeared  as  eager  and  smiling  as  ever.  Since  returning  to 
the  office  and  seeing  no  immediate  sign  of  a  destructive  attitude 
on  Angela's  part,  he  had  recovered  his  courage.  He  was  hope- 
ful of  a  perfect  denouement  to  all  this — of  a  studio  and  his 
lovely  Suzanne.  When  they  were  seated  in  the  auto,  she  im- 
mediately produced  Angela's  letter  and  handed  it  to  him  with- 
out comment.  Eugene  read  it  quietly. 

He  was  greatly  shocked  at  what  he  read,  for  he  thought  that 
Angela  was  more  kindly  disposed  toward  him.  Still  he  knew 
it  to  be  true,  all  of  it,  though  he  was  not  sure  that  Suzanne  would 
suffer  from  his  attentions.  The  fates  might  be  kind.  They 
might  be  happy  together.  Anyhow,  he  wanted  her  now. 

"Well,"  he  said,  giving  it  back,  "what  of  it?  Do  you  believe 
all  she  says?" 

"It  may  be  so,  but  somehow  when  I  am  with  you  I  don't  seem 


THE    "GENIUS"  595 

to  care.  When  I  am  away  from  you,  it's  different.  I'm  not  so 
sure." 

"You  can't  tell  whether  I  am  as  good  as  you  think  I  am?" 

"I  don't  know  what  to  think.  I  suppose  all  she  says  about 
you  is  true.  I'm  not  sure.  When  you're  away,  it's  different. 
When  you  are  here,  I  feel  as  though  everything  must  come  out 
right.  I  love  you  so.  Oh,  I  know  it  will!"  She  threw  her 
arms  around  him. 

"Then  the  letter  doesn't  really  make  any  difference?" 

"No." 

She  looked  at  him  with  big  round  eyes,  and  it  was  the  old 
story,  bliss  in  affection  without  thought.  They  rode  miles, 
stopped  at  an  inn  for  something  to  eat — Mrs.  Dale  was  away  for 
the  day — looked  at  the  sea  where  the  return  road  skirted  it,  and 
kissed  and  kissed  each  other.  Suzanne  grew  so  ecstatic  that 
she  could  see  exactly  how  it  was  all  coming  out. 

"Now  you  leave  it  to  me,"  she  said.  "I  will  sound  mama. 
If  she  is  at  all  logical,  I  think  I  can  convince  her.  I  would  so 
much  rather  do  it  that  way.  I  hate  deception.  I  would  rather 
just  tell  her,  and  then,  if  I  have  to,  defy  her.  I  don't  think 
I  shall  have  to,  though.  She  can't  do  anything." 

"I  don't  know  about  that,"  said  Eugene  cautiously.  He  had 
come  to  have  great  respect  for  Suzanne's  courage,  and  he  was 
rather  relying  on  Mrs.  Dale's  regard  for  him  to  stay  her  from 
any  desperate  course,  but  he  did  not  see  how  their  end  was  to  be 
achieved. 

He  was  for  entering  on  an  illicit  relationship  after  a  time 
without  saying  anything  at  all.  He  was  in  no  hurry,  for  his 
feeling  for  Suzanne  was  not  purely  physical,  though  he  wanted 
her.  Because  of  her  strange  reading  and  philosophy,  she  was 
defying  the  world.  She  insisted  that  she  did  not  see  how  it 
would  hurt  her. 

"But,  my  dear,  you  don't  know  life,"  said  Eugene.  "It  will 
hurt  you.  It  will  grind  you  to  pieces  in  all  places  outside  of  New 
York.  This  is  the  Metropolis.  It  is  a  world  city.  Things 
are  not  quite  the  same  here,  but  you  will  have  to  pretend,  any- 
how. It  is  so  much  easier." 

"Can  you  protect  me?"  she  asked  significantly,  referring  to 
the  condition  Angela  pleaded.  "I  wouldn't  want — I  couldn't, 
you  know,  not  yet,  not  yet." 

"I  understand,"  he  said.     "Yes,  I  can,  absolutely." 

"Well,  I  want  to  think  about  it,"  she  said  again.  "I  prefer 
so  much  to  be  honest  about  it.  I  would  so  much  rather  just 
tell  mama,  and  then  go  and  do  it.  It  would  be  so  much  nicer. 


596  THE    "GENIUS" 

My  life  is  my  own  to  do  with  as  I  please.  It  doesn't  concern 
anybody,  not  even  mama.  You  know,  if  I  want  to  waste  it, 
I  may,  only  I  don't  think  that  I  am  doing  so.  I  want  to  live 
as  I  choose.  I  don't  want  to  get  married  yet." 
/  Eugene  listened  to  her  with  the  feeling  that  this  was  the  most 
curious  experience  of  his  life.  He  had  never  heard,  never  seen, 
never  experienced  anything  like  it.  The  case  of  Christina  Chan- 
ning  was  different.  She  had  her  art  to  consider.  Suzanne  had 
nothing  of  the  sort.  She  had  a  lovely  home,  a  social  future, 
money,  the  chance  of  a  happy,  stable,  normal  life.  This  was 
love  surely,  and  yet  he  was  quite  at  sea.  Still  so  many  favor- 
able things  had  happened,  consciously  favorable,  that  he  was 
ready  to  believe  that  all  this  was  intended  for  his  benefit  by  a 
kind,  governing  providence. 

Angela  had  practically  given  in  already.  Why  not  Suzanne's 
mother?  Angela  would  not  tell  her  anything.  Mrs.  Dale  was 
not  any  stronger  than  Angela  apparently.  Suzanne  might  be 
able  to  control  her  as  she  said.  If  she  was  so  determined  to  try, 
could  he  really  stop  her?  She  was  headstrong  in  a  way  and 
wilful,  but  developing  rapidly  and  reasoning  tremendously.  Per- 
haps she  could  do  this  thing.  Who  could  tell?  They  came 
flying  back  along  lovely  lanes  where  the  trees  almost  swept  their 
faces,  past  green  stretches  of  marsh  where  the  wind  stirred  in 
ripples  the  tall  green  cat  grass,  past  pretty  farm  yards,  with 
children  and  ducks  in  the  foreground,  beautiful  mansions,  play- 
ing children,  sauntering  laborers.  All  the  while  they  were  re- 
assuring each  other,  vowing  perfect  affection,  holding  each  other 
close.  Suzanne,  as  Angela  had,  loved  to  take  Eugene's  face 
between  her  hands  and  look  into  his  eyes. 

"Look  at  me,"  she  said  once  when  he  had  dolefully  commented 
upon  the  possibility  of  change.  "Look  straight  into  my  eyes. 
^What  do  you  see?" 

"Courage  and  determination,"  he  said. 

"What  else?" 

"Love." 

"Do  you  think  I  will  change?" 

"No." 

"Surely?" 

"No." 

"Well,  look  at  me  straight,  Eugene.  I  won't.  I  won't,  do 
you  hear?  I'm  yours  until  you  don't  want  me  -anymore.  Now 
will  you  be  happy?" 

"Yes,"   he   said. 

"And  when  we  get  our  studio,"  she  went  on. 


THE    "GENIUS"  597 

"When  we  get  our  studio,"  he  said,  "we'll  furnish  it  per- 
fectly, and  entertain  a  little  after  a  while,  maybe.  You'll  be 
my  lovely  Suzanne,  my  Flower  Face,  my  Myrtle  Blossom. 
Helen,  Circe,  Dianeme." 

"I'll  be  your  week-end  bride,"  she  laughed,  "your  odd  or  even 
girl,  whichever  way  the  days  fall." 

"If  it  only  comes  true,"  he  exclaimed  when  they  parted.  "If 
it  only  does." 

"Wait  and  see,"  she  said.     "Now  you  wait  and  see." 

The  days  passed  and  Suzanne  began  what  she  called  her  cam- 
paign. Her  first  move  was  to  begin  to  talk  about  the  marriage 
question  at  the  dinner  table,  or  whenever  she  and  her  mother 
were  alone,  and  to  sound  her  on  this  important  question,  putting 
her  pronouncements  on  record.  Mrs.  Dale  was  one  of  those 
empirical  thinkers  who  love  to  philosophize  generally,  but  who 
make  no  specific  application  of  anything  to  their  own  affairs. 
On  this  marriage  question  she  held  most  liberal  and  philosophic 
views  for  all  outside  her  own  immediate  family.  It  was  her 
idea,  outside  her  own  family,  of  course,  that  if  a  girl  having 
reached  maturity,  and  what  she  considered  a  sound  intellectual 
majority,  and  who  was  not  by  then  satisfied  with  the  condition 
which  matrimony  offered,  if  she  loved  no  man  desperately  enough 
to  want  to  marry  him  and  could  arrange  some  way  whereby 
she  could  satisfy  her  craving  for  love  without  jeopardizing  her 
reputation,  that  was  her  lookout.  So  far  as  Mrs.  Dale  was  con- 
cerned, she  had  no  particular  objection.  She  knew  women  in 
society,  who,  having  made  unfortunate  marriages,  or  marriages 
of  convenience,  sustained  some  such  relationship  to  men  whom 
they  admired.  There  was  a  subtle,  under  the  surface  understand- 
ing outside  the  society  circles  of  the  most  rigid  morality  in  re- 
gard to  this,  and  there  was  the  fast  set,  of  which  she  was  at  times 
a  welcome  member,  which  laughed  at  the  severe  conventions  of 
the  older  school.  One  must  be  careful — very.  One  must  not 
be  caught.  But,  otherwise,  well,  every  person's  life  was  a  law 
unto  him  or  herself. 

Suzanne  never  figured  in  any  of  these  theories,  for  Suzanne 
was  a  beautiful  girl,  capable  of  an  exalted  alliance,  and  her 
daughter.  She  did  not  care  to  marry  her  off  to  any  wretched  pos- 
sessor of  great  wrealth  or  title,  solely  for  wealth's  or  title's  sake, 
but  she  was  hoping  that  some  eligible  young  man  of  excellent 
social  standing  or  wealth,  or  real  personal  ability,  such,  for  in- 
stance, as  Eugene  possessed,  would  come  along  and  marry  Su- 
zanne. There  would  be  a  grand  wedding  at  a  church  of  some 
prominence, — St.  Bartholomew's,  very  likely;  a  splendid  wed- 


598  THE   "GENIUS" 

ding  dinner,  oceans  of  presents,  a  beautiful  honeymoon.  She  used 
to  look  at  Suzanne  and  think  what  a  delightful  mother  she 
would  make.  She  was  so  young,  robust,  vigorous,  able,  and  in  a 
quiet  way,  passionate.  She  could  tell  when  she  danced  how 
eagerly  she  took  life.  The  young  man  would  come.  It  would 
not  be  long.  These  lovely  springtimes  would  do  their  work  one 
of  these  days.  As  it  was,  there  were  a  score  of  men  already  who 
would  have  given  an  eye  to  attract  Suzanne's  attention,  but 
Suzanne  would  none  of  them.  She  seemed  shy,  coy,  elusive, 
but  above  all,  shy.  Her  mother  had  no  idea  of  the  iron  will 
all  this  concealed  any  more  than  she  had  of  the  hard  anarchic, 
unsocial  thoughts  that  were  surging  in  her  daughter's  brain. 

"Do  you  think  a  girl  ought  to  marry  at  all,  mama?" 
Suzanne  asked  her  one  evening  when  they  were  alone  together, 
"if  she  doesn't  regard  marriage  as  a  condition  she  could  endure 
all  her  days?" 

"No-o,"  replied  her  mother.     "What  makes  you  ask?" 

"Well,  you  see  so  much  trouble  among  married  people  that 
we  know.  They're  not  very  happy  together.  Wouldn't  it  be 
better  if  a  person  just  stayed  single,  and  if  they  found  someone 
that  they  could  really  love,  well,  they  needn't  necessarily  marry 
to  be  happy,  need  they?" 

"What  have  you  been  reading  lately,  Suzanne?"  asked  her 
mother,  looking  up  with  a  touch  of  surprise  in  her  eyes. 

"Nothing  lately.  What  makes  you  ask?"  said  Suzanne  wisely, 
noting  the  change  in  her  mother's  voice. 

"With  whom  have  you  been  talking?" 

"Why,  what  difference  does  that  make,  mama?  I've  heard 
you  express  precisely  the  same  views?" 

"Quite  so.  I  may  have.  But  don't  you  think  you're  rather 
young  to  be  thinking  of  things  like  that?  I  don't  say  all  that  I 
think  when  I'm  arguing  things  philosophically.  There  are  con- 
ditions which  govern  everything.  If  it  were  impossible  for  a 
girl  to  marry  well,  or  if  looks  or  lack  of  money  interfered, — 
there  are  plenty  of  reasons — a  thing  like  that  might  possibly  be 
excusable,  but  why  should  you  be  thinking  of  that?" 

"Why,  it  doesn't  necessarily  follow,  mama,  that  because  I 
am  good  looking,  or  have  a  little  money,  or  am  socially  eligible, 
that  I  should  want  to  get  married.  I  may  not  want  to  get  mar- 
ried at  all.  I  see  just  as  well  as  you  do  how  things  are  with 
most  people.  Why  shouldn't  I?  Do  I  have  to  keep  away 
from  every  man,  then?" 

"Why,  Suzanne!  I  never  heard  you  argue  like  this  be- 
fore. You  must  have  been  talking  with  someone  or  reading 


THE    "GENIUS"  599 

some  outre  book  of  late.  I  wish  you  wouldn't.  You  are 
too  young  and  too  good  looking  to  entertain  any  such  ideas. 
Why,  you  can  have  nearly  any  young  man  you  wish.  Surely 
you  can  find  someone  with  whom  you  can  live  happily  or  with 
whom  you  would  be  willing  to  try.  It's  time  enough  to  think 
about  the  other  things  when  youVe  tried  and  failed.  At  least  you 
can  give  yourself  ample  time  to  learn  something  about  life  be- 
fore you  begin  to  talk  such  nonsense.  You're  too  young.  Why 
it's  ridiculous." 

"Mama,"  said  Suzanne,  with  the  least  touch  of  temper, 
"I  wish  you  wouldn't  talk  to  me  like  that.  I'm  not  a  child 
any  more.  I'm  a  woman.  I  think  like  a  woman — not  like  a 
girl.  You  forget  that  I  have  a  mind  of  my  own  and  some 
thoughts.  I  may  not  want  to  get  married.  I  don't  think  I  do. 
Certainly  not  to  any  of  the  silly  creatures  that  are  running  after 
me  now.  Why  shouldn't  I  take  some  man  in  an  independent 
way,  if  I  wish?  Other  women  have  before  me.  Even  if  they 
hadn't,  it  would  be  no  reason  why  I  shouldn't.  My  life  is 
my  own." 

"Suzanne  Dale!"  exclaimed  her  mother,  rising,  a  thrill  of  ter- 
ror passing  along  her  heartstrings.  "What  are  you  talking 
about  ?  Are  you  basing  these  ideas  on  anything  I  have  said  in  the 
past?  Then  certainly  my  chickens  are  coming  home  to  roost 
early.  You  are  in  no  position  to  consider  whether  you  want  to 
get  married  or  not.  You  have  seen  practically  nothing  of  men. 
Why  should  you  reach  any  such  conclusions  now  ?  For  goodness' 
sake,  Suzanne,  don't  begin  so  early  to  meditate  on  these  terrible 
things.  Give  yourself  a  few  years  in  which  to  see  the  world.  I 
don't  ask  you  to  marry,  but  you  may  meet  some  man  whom  you 
could  love  very  much,  and  who  would  love  you.  If  you  were  to 
go  and  throw  yourself  away  under  some  such  silly  theory  as  you 
entertain  now,  without  stopping  to  see,  or  waiting  for  life  to 
show  you  what  it  has  in  store,  what  will  you  have  to  offer  him. 
Suzanne,  Suzanne" — Suzanne  was  turning  impatiently  to  a  win- 
dow— "you  frighten  me!  There  isn't,  there  couldn't  be.  Oh, 
Suzanne,  I  beg  of  you,  be  careful  what  you  think,  what  you 
say,  what  you  do!  I  can't  know  all  your  thoughts,  no  mother 
can,  but,  oh,  if  you  will  stop  and  think,  and  wait  a  while!" 

She  looked  at  Suzanne  who  walked  to  a  mirror  and  began  to 
fix  a  bow  in  her  hair. 

"Mama,"  she  said  calmly.  "Really,  you  amuse  me.  When 
you  are  out  with  people  at  dinner,  you  talk  one  way,  and  when 
you  are  here  with  me,  you  talk  another.  I  haven't  done  any- 
thing desperate  yet.  I  don't  know  what  I  may  want  to  do. 


6oo  THE   '  *  GENIUS11 

Fm  not  a  child  any  more,  mama.  Please  remember  that. 
I'm  a  woman  grown,  and  I  certainly  can  lay  out  my  life  for 
myself.  I'm  sure  I  don't  want  to  do  what  you  are  doing — 
talk  one  thing  and  do  another." 

Mrs.  Dale  recoiled  intensely  from  this  stab.  Suzanne  had 
suddenly  developed  in  the  line  of  her  argument  a  note  of 
determination,  frank  force  and  serenity  of  logic  which  appalled 
her.  Where  had  the  girl  got  all  this?  With  whom  had  she 
been  associating?  She  went  over  in  her  mind  the  girls  and  men 
she  had  met  and  known.  Who  were  her  intimate  companions? 
— Vera  Almerding;  Lizette  Woodworth;  Cora  TenEyck — a 
half  dozen  girls  who  were  smart  and  clever  and  socially  ex- 
perienced. Were  they  talking  such  things  among  themselves? 
Was  there  some  man  or  men  unduly  close  to  them  ?  There  was 
one  remedy  for  all  this.  It  must  be  acted  on  quickly  if  Suzanne 
were  going  to  fall  in  with  and  imbibe  any  such  ideas  as  these. 
Travel — two  or  three  years  of  incessant  travel  with  her,  which 
would  cover  this  dangerous  period  in  which  girls  were  so  sus- 
ceptible to  undue  influence  was  the  necessary  thing.  Oh,  her 
own  miserable  tongue!  Her  silly  ideas!  No  doubt  all  she 
said  was  true.  Generally  it  was  so.  But  Suzanne!  Her  Su- 
zanne, never!  She  would  take  her  away  while  she  had  time, 
to  grow  older  and  wiser  through  experience.  Never  would  she 
be  permitted  to  stay  here  where  girls  and  men  were  talking 
and  advocating  any  such  things.  She  would  scan  Suzanne's 
literature  more  closely  from  now  on.  She  would  viser  her  friend- 
ships. What  a  pity  that  so  lovely  a  girl  must  be  corrupted  by 
such  wretched,  unsocial,  anarchistic  notions.  Why,  what  would 
become  of  her  girl?  Where  would  she  be?  Dear  Heaven! 

She  looked  down  in  the  social  abyss  yawning  at  her  feet  and 
recoiled  with  horror. 

Never,  never,  never!  Suzanne  should  be  saved  from  her- 
self, from  all  such  ideas  now  and  at  once. 

And  she  began  to  think  how  she  could  introduce  the  idea  of 
travel  easily  and  nicely.  She  must  lure  Suzanne  to  go  without 
alarming  her — without  making  her  think  that  she  was  bringing 
pressure  to  bear.  But  from  now  on  there  must  be  a  new  order 
established.  She  must  talk  differently;  she  must  act  differently. 
Suzanne  and  all  her  children  must  be  protected  against  them- 
selves and  others  also.  That  was  the  lesson  which  this  con- 
versation taught  her. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

EUGENE  and  Angela  had  been  quarreling  between  them- 
selves most  bitterly ;  at  other  times  Angela  was  attempting 
to  appeal  to  his  sense  of  justice  and  fair  play,  if  not  his  old- 
time  affection,  in  the  subtlest  of  ways.  She  was  completely 
thrown  out  of  her  old  methods  of  calculation,  and  having  lost 
those  had  really  no  traditions  on  which  to  proceed.  Eugene  had 
always  heretofore  apparently  feared  her  wrath;  now  he  cared 
nothing  for  that.  He  had  been  subject,  in  times  past,  to  a 
certain  extent  to  those  alluring  blandishments  which  the  married 
will  understand  well  enough,  but  these  were  as  ashes.  Her 
charms  meant  nothing  to  him.  She  had  hoped  that  the  thought 
of  a  coming  child  would  move  him,  but  no,  it  was  apparently 
without  avail.  Suzanne  seemed  a  monster  to  her  now  since  she 
did  not  desert  him,  and  Eugene  a  raving  maniac  almost,  and  yet 
she  could  see  how  human  and  natural  it  all  was.  He  was  hypno- 
tized, possessed.  He  had  one  thought,  Suzanne,  Suzanne,  and 
he  would  fight  her  at  every  turn  for  that.  He  told  her  so. 
He  told  her  of  her  letter  to  Suzanne,  and  the  fact  that  he 
had  read  and  destroyed  it.  It  did  not  help  her  cause  at  all. 
She  knew  that  she  had  decried  him.  He  stood  his  ground 
solidly,  awaiting  the  will  of  Suzanne,  and  he  saw  Suzanne  fre- 
quently, telling  her  that  he  had  won  completely,  and  that  the  ful- 
filment of  their  desires  now  depended  upon  her. 

As  has  been  said,  Suzanne  was  not  without  passion.  The 
longer  she  associated  with  Eugene,  the  more  eager  she  became 
for  that  joyous  fulfilment  which  his  words,  his  looks,  his  emo- 
tions indicated.  In  her  foolish,  girlish  way,  she  had  built  up 
a  fancy  which  was  capable  of  realization  only  by  the  most  ruth- 
less and  desperate  conduct.  Her  theory  of  telling  her  mother 
and  overcoming  her  by  argument  or  defiance  was  really  vain, 
for  it  could  not  be  settled  so  easily,  or  so  quickly.  Because  of 
her  mother's  appeal  to  her  in  this  first  conversation,  she  fancied 
she  had  won  a  substantial  victory.  Her  mother  was  subject 
to  her  control  and  could  not  defeat  her  in  argument.  By  the 
latter  token  she  felt  she  was  certain  to  win.  Besides,  she  was 
counting  heavily  on  her  mother's  regard  for  Eugene  and  her 
deep  affection  for  herself.  Hitherto,  her  mother  had  really  re- 
fused her  nothing. 

.601 


602  THE    "GENIUS" 

The  fact  that  Eugene  did  not  take  her  outright  at  this  time, — 
postponing  until  a  more  imperative  occasion  an  adjustment  of  the 
difficulties  which  must  necessarily  flow  from  their  attempted 
union  without  marriage — was  due  to  the  fact  that  he  was  not  as 
desperate  or  as  courageous  as  he  appeared  to  be.  He  wanted  her, 
but  he  was  a  little  afraid  of  Suzanne  herself.  She  was  doubt- 
ful, anxious  to  wait,  anxious  to  plan  things  her  own  way.  He 
was  not  truly  ruthless  ever,  but  good  natured  and  easy  going. 
He  was  no  subtle  schemer  and  planner,  but  rather  an  easy 
natured  soul,  who  drifted  here  and  there  with  all  the  tides 
and  favorable  or  unfavorable  winds  of  circumstance.  He  might 
have  been  ruthless  if  he  had  been  eager  enough  for  any  one 
particular  thing  on  this  earth,  money,  fame,  affection,  but  at 
bottom,  he  really  did  not  care  as  much  as  he  thought  he  did. 
Anything  was  really  worth  fighting  for  if  you  had  to  have 
it,  but  it  was  not  worth  fighting  for  to  the  bitter  end,  if  you 
could  possibly  get  along  without  it.  Besides,  there  was  noth- 
ing really  one  could  not  do  without,  if  one  were  obliged.  He 
might  long  intensely,  but  he  could  survive.  He  was  more  ab- 
sorbed in  this  desire  than  in  anything  else  in  his  history,  but  he 
was  not  willing  to  be  hard  and  grasping. 

On  the  other  hand,  Suzanne  was  willing  to  be  taken,  but 
needed  to  be  pressed  or  compelled.  She  imagined  in  a  vague 
way  that  she  wanted  to  wait  and  adjust  things  in  her  own  way, 
but  she  was  merely  dreaming,  procrastinating  because  he  was 
procrastinating.  If  he  had  but  compelled  her  at  once  she 
would  have  been  happy,  but  he  was  sadly  in  need  of  that  des- 
perate energy  that  acts  first  and  thinks  afterward.  Like  Ham- 
let, he  was  too  fond  of  cogitating,  too  anxious  to  seek  the  less 
desperate  way,  and  in  doing  this  was  jeopardizing  that  ideal  bliss 
for  which  he  was  willing  to  toss  away  all  the  material  ad- 
vantages which  he  had  thus  far  gained. 

When  Mrs.  Dale  quite  casually  within  a  few  days  began  to 
suggest  that  they  leave  New  York  for  the  fall  and  winter, 
she,  Suzanne  and  Kinroy,  and  visit  first  England,  then  Southern 
France  and  then  Egypt,  Suzanne  immediately  detected  some- 
thing intentional  about  it,  or  at  best  a  very  malicious  plan  on 
the  part  of  fate  to  destroy  her  happiness.  She  had  been  con- 
jecturing how,  temporarily,  she  could  avoid  distant  and  long 
drawn  out  engagements  which  her  mother  not  infrequently  ac- 
cepted for  herself  and  Suzanne  outside  New  York,  but  she  had 
not  formulated  a  plan.  Mrs.  Dale  was  very  popular  and  much 
liked.  This  easy  suggestion,  made  with  considerable  assurance 
by  her  mother,  and  as  though  it  would  be  just  the  thing,  fright- 


THE   "'GENIUS'1  603 

ened  and  then  irritated  Suzanne.  Why  should  her  mother  think 
of  it  just  at  this  time? 

"I  don't  want  to  go  to  Europe,"  she  said  warily.  "We  were 
over  there  only  three  years  ago.  I'd  rather  stay  over  here  this 
winter  and  see  what's  going  on  in  New  York." 

"But  this  trip  will  be  so  delightful,  Suzanne,"  her  mother 
insisted.  "The  Camerons  are  to  be  at  Callendar  in  Scotland 
for  the  fall.  They  have  taken  a  cottage  there.  I  had  a  no\e 
from  Louise,  Tuesday.  I  thought  we  might  run  up  there  and 
see  them  and  then  go  to  the  Isle  of  Wight." 

"I  don't  care  to  go,  mama,"  replied  Suzanne  determinedly. 
We're  settled  here  comfortably.  Why  do  you  always  want  to  be 
running  off  somewhere?" 

"Why,  I'm  not  running — how  you  talk,  Suzanne!  I  never 
heard  you  object  very  much  to  going  anywhere  before.  I 
.should  think  Egypt  and  the  Riviera  would  interest  you  very 
much.  You  haven't  been  to  either  of  these  places." 

"I  know  they're  delightful,  but  I  don't  care  to  go  this  fall. 
I'd  rather  stay  here.  Why  should  you  suddenly  decide  that  you 
want  to  go  away  for  a  year?" 

"I  haven't  suddenly  decided,"  insisted  her  mother.  "I've 
been  thinking  of  it  for  some  time,  as  you  know.  Haven't  I  said 
that  we  would  spend  a  winter  in  Europe  soon?  The  last  time 
I  mentioned  it,  you  were  very  keen  for  it." 

"Oh,  I  know,  mama,  but  that  was  nearly  a  year  ago.  I 
don't  want  to  go  now.  I  would  rather  stay  here." 

"Why  would  you?  More  of  your  friends  go  away  than 
remain.  I  think  a  particularly  large  number  of  them  are  going 
this  winter." 

"Ha!  Ha!  Ho!  Ho!"  laughed  Suzanne.  "A  particu- 
larly large  number.  How  you  exaggerate,  mama,  when  you 
want  anything.  You  always  amuse  me.  It's  a  particularly  large 
number  now,  just  because  you  want  to  go,"  and  she  laughed 
again. 

Suzanne's  defiance  irritated  her  mother.  Why  should  she  sud- 
denly take  this  notion  to  stay  here?  It  must  be  this  group  of 
girls  she  was  in  with,  and  yet,  Suzanne  appeared  to  have  so 
few  intimate  girl  friends.  The  Almerdings  were  not  going  to 
stay  in  town  all  the  winter.  They  were  here  now  because  of 
a  fire  at  their  country  place,  but  it  would  only  be  for  a  little 
while.  Neither  were  the  TenEycks.  It  couldn't  be  that 
Suzanne  was  interested  in  some  man.  The  only  person  she  cared 
much  about  was  Eugene  Witla,  and  he  was  married  and  only 
friendly  in  a  brotherly,  guardian-like  way. 


604  THE    "GENIUS" 

"Now,  Suzanne,"  she  said  determinedly,  "I'm  not  going  to 
have  you  talk  nonsense.  This  trip  will  be  a  delightful  thing 
for  you  once  you  have  started.  It's  useless  for  you  to  let  a 
silly  notion  like  not  wanting  to  go  stand  in  your  way.  You  are 
just  at  the  time  when  you  ought  to  travel.  Now  you  had  better 
begin  to  prepare  yourself,  for  we're  going." 

"Oh,  no,  I'm  not,  mama,"  said  Suzanne.  "Why,  you  talk 
as  though  I  were  a  very  little  girl.  I  don't  want  to  go  this 
fall  and  I'm  not  going.  You  may  go  if  you  want  to,  but  I'm 
not  going." 

"Why,  Suzanne  Dale!"  exclaimed  her  mother.  "Whatever 
has  come  over  you?  Of  course  you'll  go.  Where  would  you 
stay  if  I  went?  Do  you  think  I  would  walk  off  and  leave 
you?  Have  I  ever  before?" 

"You  did  when  I  was  at  boarding  school,"  interrupted  Su- 
zanne. 

"That  was  a  different  matter.  Then  you  were  under  proper 
supervision.  Mrs.  Hill  was  answerable  to  me  for  your  care. 
Here  you  would  be  alone.  What  do  you  think  I  would  be 
doing?" 

"There  you  go,  mama,  talking  as  though  I  was  a  little 
girl  again.  Will  you  please  remember  that  I  am  nearly  nine- 
teen? I  know  how  to  look  after  myself.  Besides,  there  are 
plenty  of  people  with  whom  I  might  stay  if  I  chose." 

"Suzanne  Dale,  you  talk  like  one  possessed.  I'll  listen  to 
nothing  of  the  sort.  You  are  my  daughter,  and  as  such,  sub- 
ject to  my  guardianship.  Of  what  are  you  thinking?  What 
have  you  been  reading?  There's  some  silly  thing  at  the  bottom 
of  all  this.  I'll  not  go  away  and  leave  you  and  you  will  come 
with  me.  I  should  think  that  after  all  these  years  of  devo- 
tion on  my  part,  you  would  take  my  feelings  into  considera- 
tion. How  can  you  stand  there  and  argue  with  me  in  this 
way?" 

"Arguing,  mama?"  asked  Suzanne  loftily.  "I'm  not  argu- 
ing. I'm  just  not  going.  I  have  my  reasons  for  not  wanting 
to  go,  and  I'm  not  going,  that's  all!  Now  you  may  go  if  you 
want  to." 

Mrs.  Dale  looked  into  Suzanne's  eyes  and  saw  for  the  first 
time  a  gleam  of  real  defiance  in  them.  What  had  brought  this 
about?  Why  was  her  daughter  so  set — of  a  sudden,  so  stubborn 
and  hard?  Fear,  anger,  astonishment,  mingled  equally  in  her 
feelings. 

"What  do  you  mean  by  reasons?"  asked  her  mother.  "What 
reasons  have  you?" 


THE    "GENIUS"  605 

"A  very  good  one,"  said  Suzanne  quietly,  twisting  it  to  the 
singular. 

"Well,  what  is  it  then,  pray?" 

Suzanne  debated  .swiftly  and  yet  a  little  vaguely  in  her  own 
mind.  She  had  hoped  for  a  longer  process  of  philosophic  dis- 
cussion in  which  to  entrap  her  mother  into  some  moral  and  intel- 
lectual position  from  which  she  could  not  well  recede,  and  by 
reason  of  which  she  would  have  to  grant  her  the  license  she  de- 
sired. From  one  remark  and  another  dropped  in  this  and  the 
preceding  conversation,  she  realized  that  her  mother  had  no  logi- 
cal arrangement  in  her  mind  whereby  she  included  her  in  her 
philosophical  calculations  at  all.  She  might  favor  any  and  every 
theory  and  conclusion  under  the  sun,  but  it  would  mean  nothing 
in  connection  with  Suzanne.  The  only  thing  that  remained, 
therefore,  was  to  defy  her,  or  run  away,  and  Suzanne  did  not 
want  to  do  the  latter.  She  was  of  age.  She  could  adjust  her 
own  affairs.  She  had  money.  Her  mental  point  of  view  was  as 
good  and  sound  as  her  mother's.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  the  lat- 
ter's  attitude,  in  view  of  Suzanne's  recent  experience  and  feel- 
ings, seemed  weak  and  futile.  What  did  her  mother  know 
of  life  any  more  than  she?  They  were  both  in  the  world,  and 
Suzanne  felt  herself  to  be  the  stronger — the  sounder  of  the  two. 
Why  not  tell  her  now  and  defy  her.  She  would  win.  She  must. 
She  could  dominate  her  mother,  and  this  was  the  time  to  do  it. 

"Because  I  want  to  stay  near  the  man  I  love,"  she  finally 
volunteered  quietly. 

Mrs.  Dale's  hand,  which  had  been  elevated  to  a  position  of 
gesticulation  before  her,  dropped  limp,  involuntarily,  to  her 
side.  Her  mouth  opened  the  least  bit.  She  stared  in  a  sur- 
prised, anguished,  semi-foolish  way. 

"The  man  you  love,  Suzanne?"  she  asked,  swept  completely 
from  her  moorings,  and  lost  upon  a  boundless  sea.  "Who  is 
he?" 

"Mr.  Witla,  mama — Eugene.  I  love  him  and  he  loves 
me.  Don't  stare,  mama.  Mrs.  Witla  knows.  She  is  willing 
that  we  should  have  each  other.  We  love  each  other.  I  am 
going  to  stay  here  where  I  can  be  near  him.  He  needs  me." 

"Eugene,  Witla!"  exclaimed  her  mother,  breathless,  a  look 
of  horror  in  her  eyes,  cold  fright  in  her  tense  hands.  "You 
love  Eugene  Witla?  a  married  man!  He  loves  you!  Are  you 
talking  to  me?  Eugene  Witla!!  You  love  him!  Why  I  can't 
believe  this.  I'm  not  in  my  right  mind.  Suzanne  Dale,  don't 
stand  there!  Don't  look  at  me  like  that!  Are  you  telling  me, 
your  mother?  Tell  me  it  isn't  so!  Tell  me  it  isn't  so  before 


606  THE    '  'GENIUS'3 

you  drive  me  mad!  Oh,  great  Heavens,  what  am  I  coming  to? 
What  have  I  done?  Eugene  Witla  of  all  men!  Oh,  God,  oh, 
God,  oh,  God!" 

"Why  do  you  carry  on  so,  mama?"  asked  Suzanne  calmly. 
She  had  expected  some  such  scene  as  this — not  quite  so  intense, 
so  hysterical,  but  something  like  it,  and  was,  in  a  way,  prepared 
for  it.  A  selfish  love  was  her  animating,  governing  impulse — a 
love  also  that  stilled  self,  and  put  aside  as  nothing  all  the 
world  and  its  rules.  Suzanne  really  did  not  know  what  she  was 
doing.  She  was  hypnotized  by  the  sense  of  perfection  in  her 
lover,  the  beauty  of  their  love.  Not  practical  facts  but  the 
beauty  of  the  summer,  the  feel  of  cool  winds,  the  glory  of  skies 
and  sunlight  and  moonlight,  were  in  her  mind.  Eugene's  arms 
about  her,  his  lips  to  hers,  meant  more  than  all  the  world  beside. 
"I  love  him.  Of  course,  I  love  him.  What  is  there  so  strange 
about  that?" 

"What  is  strange?  Are  you  in  your  right  mind?  Oh,  my 
poor,  dear  little  girl!  My  Suzanne!  Oh,  that  villain!  That 
scoundrel!  To  come  into  my  house  and  make  love  to  you,  my 
darling  child!  How  should  you  know?  How  could  I  expect 
you  to  understand?  Oh,  Suzanne!  for  my  sake,  for  the  love  of 
Heaven,  hush!  Never  breathe  it!  Never  say  that  terrible  thing 
to  me  again!  Oh,  dear!  Oh,  dear!  Oh,  dear!!!  That  I 
should  live  to  see  this!  My  child!  My  Suzanne!  My  lovely, 
beautiful  Suzanne!  I  shall  die  unless  I  can  stop  this!  I  shall 
die!  I  shall  die!" 

Suzanne  stared  at  her  mother  quite  astonished  at  the  violent 
emotion  into  which  she  had  cast  her.  Her  pretty  eyes  were 
open  wide,  her  eyebrows  elevated,  her  lips  parted  sweetly.  She 
was  a  picture  of  intense  classic  beauty,  chiseled,  peaceful,  self- 
possessed.  Her  brow  was  as  smooth  as  marble,  her  lips  as  arched 
as  though  they  had  never  known  one  emotion  outside  joy.  Her 
look  was  of  a  quizzical,  slightly  amused,  but  not  supercilious 
character  which  made  her  more  striking  than  ever  if  possible. 

"Why,  mama!  You  think  I  am  a  child,  don't  you?  All 
that  I  say  to  you  is  true.  I  love  Eugene.  He  loves  me.  I 
am  going  to  live  with  him  as  soon  as  it  can  be  quietly  arranged. 
I  wanted  to  tell  you  because  I  don't  want  to  do  anything  secretly, 
but  I  propose  to  do  it.  I  wish  you  wouldn't  insist  on  looking 
on  me  as  a  baby,  mama.  I  know  what  I  am  doing.  I  have 
thought  it  all  out  this  long  time." 

"Thought  it  all  out!"  pondered  Mrs.  Dale.  "Going  to  live 
with  him  when  it  can  be  arranged!  Is  she  talking  of  living 
with  a  man  without  a  wedding  ceremony  being  performed? 


THE    "GENIUS'  607 

With  a  man  already  married!  Is  the  child  stark  mad?  Some- 
thing has  turned  her  brain.  Surely  something  has.  This  is 
not  my  Suzanne — my  dear,  lovely,  entrancing  Suzanne." 

To  Suzanne  she  exclaimed  aloud : 

"Are  you  talking  of  living  with  this,  with  this,  oh,  I  don't 
dare  to  name  him.  I'll  die  if  I  don't  get  this  matter  straightened 
out;  of  living  without  a  marriage  ceremony  and  without  his 
being  divorced?  I  can't  believe  that  I  am  awake.  I  can't!  I 
can't!" 

"Certainly  I  am,"  replied  Suzanne.  "It  is  all  arranged  be- 
tween us.  Mrs.  Witla  knows.  She  has  given  her  consent.  I 
expect  you  to  give  yours,  if  you  desire  me  to  stay  here,  mama." 

"Give  my  consent!  As  God  is  my  witness!  Am  I  alive?  Is 
this  my  daughter  talking  to  me?  Am  I  in  this  room  here 
with  you?  I."  She  stopped,  her  mouth  wide  open.  "If  it 
weren't  so  horribly  tragic,  I  should  laugh.  I  will!  I  will  be- 
come hysterical!  My  brain  is  whirling  like  a  wheel  now.  Su- 
zanne Dale,  you  are  insane.  You  are  madly,  foolishly  insane. 
If  you  do  not  hush  and  cease  this  terrible  palaver,  I  will  have 
you  locked  up.  I  will  have  an  inquiry  made  into  your  sanity. 
This  is  the  wildest,  most  horrible,  most  unimaginable  thing  ever 
proposed  to  a  mother.  To  think  that  I  should  have  lived  with 
you  eighteen  long  years,  carried  you  in  my  arms,  nursed  you  at 
my  breast  and  then  have  you  stand  here  and  tell  me  that  you  will 
go  and  live  unsanctioned  with  a  man  who  has  a  good  true 
woman  now  living  as  his  wife.  This  is  the  most  astounding 
thing  I  have  ever  heard  of.  It  is  unbelievable.  You  will  not 
do  it.  You  will  no  more  do  it  than  you  will  fly.  I  will  kill 
him!  I  will  kill  you!  I  would  rather  see  you  dead  at  my  feet 
this  minute  than  to  even  think  that  you  could  have  stood  there 
and  proposed  such  a  thing  to  me.  It  will  never  be!  It  will 
never  be!  I  will  give  you  poison  first.  I  will  do  anything, 
everything,  but  you  shall  never  see  this  man  again.  If  he  dares 
to  cross  this  threshold,  I  will  kill  him  at  sight.  I  love  you. 
I  think  you  are  a  wonderful  girl,  but  this  thing  shall  never 
be.  And  don't  you  dare  to  attempt  to  dissuade  me.  I  will 
kill  you,  I  tell  you.  I  would  rather  see  you  dead  a  thousand 
times.  To  think!  To  think!  To  think!  Oh,  that  beast! 
That  villain !  that  unconscionable  cur !  To  think  that  he  should 
come  into  my  house  after  all  my  courtesy  to  him  and  do  this 
thing  to  me.  Wait!  He  has  position,  he  has  distinction.  I 
will  drive  him  out  of  New  York.  I  will  ruin  him.  I  will 
make  it  impossible  for  him  to  show  his  face  among  decent 
people.  Wait  and  see!" 


608  THE   "GENIUS" 

Her  face  was  white,  her  hands  clenched,  her  teeth  set.  She 
had  a  keen,  savage  beauty,  much  like  that  of  a  tigress  when 
it  shows  its  teeth.  Her  eyes  were  hard  and  cruel  and  flash- 
ing. Suzanne  had  never  imagined  her  mother  capable  of  such 
a  burst  of  rage  as  this. 

"Why,  mama,"  she  said  calmly  and  quite  unmoved,  "you 
talk  as  though  you  ruled  my  life  completely.  You  would  like 
to  make  me  feel,  I  suppose,  that  I  do  not  dare  to  do  what  I 
choose.  I  do,  mama.  My  life  is  my  own,  not  yours.  You 
cannot  frighten  me.  I  have  made  up  my  mind  what  I  am 
going  to  do  in  this  matter,  and  I  am  going  to  do  it.  You 
cannot  stop  me.  You  might  as  well  not  try.  If  I  don't  do  it 
now,  I  will  later.  I  love  Eugene.  I  am  going  to  live  with 
him.  If  you  won't  let  me  I  will  go  away,  but  I  propose  to 
live  with  him,  and  you  might  as  well  stop  now  trying  to 
frighten  me,  for  you  can't." 

"Frighten  you!  Frighten  you!  Suzanne  Dale,  you  haven't 
the  faintest,  weakest  conception  of  what  you  are  talking  about, 
or  of  what  I  mean  to  do.  If  a  breath  of  this — the  faintest 
intimation  of  your  intention  were  to  get  abroad,  you  would  be 
socially  ostracized.  Do  you  realize  that  you  would  not  have  a 
friend  left  in  the  world — that  all  the  people  you  now  know  and 
are  friendly  with  would  go  across  the  street  to  avoid  you?  If 
you  didn't  have  independent  means,  you  couldn't  even  get  a 
position  in  an  ordinary  shop.  Going  to  live  with  him?  You 
are  going  to  die  first,  right  here  in  my  charge  and  in  my 
arms.  I  love  you  too  much  not  to  kill  you.  I  would  a  thou- 
sand times  rather  die  with  you  myself.  You  are  not  going 
to  see  that  man  any  more,  not  once,  and  if  he  dares  to  show 
his  face  here,  I  will  kill  him.  I  have  said  it.  I  mean  it.  Now 
you  provoke  me  to  action  if  you  dare." 

Suzanne  merely  smiled.  "How  you  talk,  mama.  You  make 
me  laugh." 

Mrs.  Dale  stared. 

"Oh,  Suzanne!  Suzanne!"  she  suddenly  exclaimed.  "Before 
it  is  too  late,  before  I  learn  to  hate  you,  before  you  break 
my  heart,  come  to  my  arms  and  tell  me  that  you  are  sorry — 
that  it  is  all  over — that  it  is  all  a  vile,  dark,  hateful  dream. 
Oh,  my  Suzanne!  My  Suzanne!" 

"No,  mama,  no.  Don't  come  near,  don't  touch  me,"  said 
Suzanne,  drawing  back.  "You  haven't  any  idea  of  what  you  are 
talking  about,  of  what  I  am,  or  what  I  mean  to  do.  You 
don't  understand  me.  You  never  did,  mama.  You  have  al- 
ways looked  down  on  me  in  some  superior  way  as  though  you 


THE    "GENIUS"  609 

knew  a  great  deal  and  I  very  little.  It  isn't  that  way  at  all. 
It  isn't  true.  I  know  what  I  am  about.  I  know  what  I  am 
doing.  I  love  Mr.  Witla,  and  I  am  going  to  live  with  him. 
Mrs.  Witla  understands.  She  knows  how  it  is.  You  will.  I 
don't  care  anything  at  all  about  what  people  think.  I  don't  care 
what  any  society  friends  do.  They  are  not  making  my  life. 
They  are  all  just  as  narrow  and  selfish  as  they  can  be,  anyhow. 
Love  is  something  different  from  that.  You  don't  understand 
me.  I  love  Eugene,  and  he  is  going  to  have  me,  and  I  am 
going  to  have  him.  If  you  want  to  try  to  wreck  my  life  and 
his,  you  may,  but  it  won't  make  any  difference.  I  will  have  him, 
anyhow.  We  might  just  as  well  quit  talking  about  it  now." 

"Quit  talking  about  it?  Quit  talking  about  it?  Indeed,  I 
haven't  even  begun  talking  yet.  I  am  just  trying  to  collect 
my  wits,  that's  all.  You  are  raging  in  insanity.  This  thing 
will  never  be.  It  will  nev-er  be.  You  are  just  a  poor,  deluded 
slip  of  girl,  whom  I  have  failed  to  watch  sufficiently.  From 
now  on,  I  will  do  my  duty  by  you,  if  God  spares  me.  You 
need  me.  Oh,  how  you  need  me.  lyoor  little  Suzanne!'* 

"Oh,  hush,  mama!     Stop  the  hysteria,"  interrupted  Suzanne. 

"I  will  call  up  Mr.  Colfax.  I  will  call  up  Mr.  Winfield. 
I  will  have  him  discharged.  I  will  expose  him  in  the  news- 
papers. The  scoundrel,  the  villain,  the  thief!  Oh,  that  I  should 
have  lived  to  see  this  day.  That  I  should  have  lived  to  have 
seen  this  day!" 

"That's  right,  mama,"  said  Suzanne,  wearily.  "Go  on. 
You  are  just  talking,  you  know,  and  I  know  that  you  are.  You 
cannot  change  me.  Talking  cannot.  It  is  silly  to  rave  like 
this,  I  think.  Why  won't  you  be  quiet?  We  may  talk,  but 
needn't  scream." 

Mrs.  Dale  put  her  hands  to  her  temples.  Her  brain  seemed 
to  be  whirling. 

"Never  mind,  now,"  she  said.  "Never  mind.  I  must  have 
time  to  think.  But  this  thing  you  are  thinking  will  never  be. 
It  never  will  be.  Oh!  Oh!" — and  she  turned  sobbing  to  the 
window. 

Suzanne  merely  stared.  What  a  peculiar  thing  emotions  were 
in  people — their  emotions  over  morals.  Here  was  her  mother, 
weeping,  and  she  was  looking  upon  the  thing  her  mother  was 
crying  about  as  the  most  essential  and  delightful  and  desirable 
thing.  Certainly  life  was  revealing  itself  to  her  rapidly  these 
days.  Did  she  really  love  Eugene  so  much?  Yes,  yes,  yes, 
indeed.  A  thousand  times  yes.  This  was  not  a  tearful  emo- 
tion for  her,  but  a  great,  consuming,  embracing  joy. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

FOR  hours  that  night,  until  one,  two,  and  three  o'clock  in 
the  morning;  from  five,  six  and  seven  on  until  noon  and 
night  of  the  next  day,  and  the  next  day  after  that  and  the 
fourth  day  and  the  fifth  day,  the  storm  continued.  It  was  a 
terrible,  siege,  heart  burning,  heart  breaking,  brain  racking; 
Mrs.  Dale  lost  weight  rapidly.  The  color  left  her  cheeks,  a 
haggard  look  settled  in  her  eyes.  She  was  terrified,  nonplussed, 
driven  to  extremities  for  means  wherewith  to  overcome  Suzanne's 
opposition  and  suddenly  but  terribly  developed  will.  No  one 
would  have  dreamed  that  this  quiet,  sweet-mannered,  intro- 
spective girl  could  be  so  positive,  convinced  and  unbending  when 
in  action.  She  was  as  a  fluid  body  that  has  become  adamant. 
She  was  a  creature  made  of  iron,  a  girl  with  a  heart  of  stone; 
nothing  moved  her — her  mother's  tears,  her  threats  of  social 
ostracism,  of  final  destruction,  of  physical  and  moral  destruc- 
tion for  Eugene  and  herself,  her  threats  of  public  exposure  in 
the  newspapers,  of  incarceration  in  an  asylum.  Suzanne  had 
watched  her  mother  a  long  time  and  concluded  that  she  loved 
to  talk  imposingly  in  an  easy,  philosophic,  at  times  pompous, 
way,  but  that  really  there  was  very  little  in  what  she  said. 
She  did  not  believe  that  her  mother  had  true  courage — that  she 
would  risk  incarcerating  her  in  an  asylum,  or  exposing  Eugene 
to  her  own  disadvantage,  let  alone  poisoning  or  killing  her. 
Her  mother  loved  her.  She  would  rage  terribly  for  a  time 
this  way,  then  she  would  give  in.  It  was  Suzanne's  plan  to 
wear  her  down,  to  stand  her  ground  firmly  until  her  mother 
wearied  and  broke  under  the  strain.  Then  she  would  begin 
to  say  a  few  words  for  Eugene,  and  eventually  by  much  arguing 
and  blustering,  her  mother  would  come  round.  Eugene  would 
be  admitted  to  the  family  councils  again.  He  and  Suzanne 
would  argue  it  all  out  together  in  her  mother's  presence.  They 
would  probably  agree  to  disagree  in  a  secret  way,  but  she  would 
get  Eugene  and  he  her.  Oh,  the  wonder  of  that  joyous  denoue- 
ment. It  was  so  near  now,  and  all  for  a  little  courageous  fight- 
ing. She  would  fight,  fight  until  her  mother  broke,  and  then — 
Oh,  Eugene,  Eugene! 

Mrs.  Dale  was  not  to  be  so  easily  overcome  as  Suzanne 
imagined.  Haggard  and  worn  as  she  was,  she  was  far  from 
yielding.  There  was  an  actual  physical  conflict  between  them 

610 


THE   •  'GENIUS"  611 

once  when  Suzanne,  in  the  height  of  an  argument,  decided  that 
she  would  call  up  Eugene  on  the  phone  and  ask  him  to  come 
down  and  help  her  settle  the  discussion.  Mrs.  Dale  was  deter- 
mined that  she  should  not.  The  servants  were  in  the  house 
listening,  unable  to  catch  at  first  the  drift  of  the  situation,  but 
knowing  almost  by  intuition  that  there  was  a  desperate  dis- 
cussion going  on.  Suzanne  decided  to  go  down  to  the  library 
where  the  phone  was.  Mrs.  Dale  put  her  back  to  the  door 
and  attempted  to  deter  her.  Suzanne  tried  to  open  it  by  pull- 
ing. Her  mother  unloosed  her  hands  desperately,  but  it  was  very 
difficult,  Suzanne  was  so  strong. 

"For  shame,"  she  said.  "For  shame!  To  make  your  mother 
contest  with  you.  Oh,  the  degradation" — the  while  she  was 
struggling.  Finally,  angry,  hysteric  tears  coursed  involuntarily 
down  her  cheeks  and  Suzanne  was  moved  at  last.  It  was  so  ob- 
vious that  this  was  real  bitter  heart-burning  on  her  mother's 
part.  Her  hair  was  shaken  loose  on  one  side — her  sleeve  torn. 

"Oh,  my  goodness!  my  goodness!"  Mrs  Dale  gasped  at  last, 
throwing  herself  in  a  chair  and  sobbing  bitterly.  "I  shall  never 
lift  my  head  again.  I  shall  never  lift  my  head  again." 

Suzanne  looked  at  her  somewhat  sorrowfully.  "I'm  sorry, 
mama,"  she  said,  "but  you  have  brought  it  all  on  yourself.  I 
needn't  call  him  now.  He  will  call  me  and  I  will  answer.  It 
all  comes  from  your  trying  to  rule  me  in  your  way.  You  won't 
realize  that  I  am  a  personality  also,  quite  as  much  as  you  are. 
I  have  my  life  to  live.  It  is  mine  to  do  with  as  I  please.  You 
are  not  going  to  prevent  me  in  the  long  run.  You  might  just 
as  well  stop  fighting  with  me  now.  I  don't  want  to  quarrel 
with  you.  I  don't  want  to  argue,  but  I  am  a  grown  woman, 
mama.  Why  don't  you  listen  to  reason?  Why  don't  you  let 
me  show  you  how  I  feel  about  this?  Two  people  loving  each 
other  have  a  right  to  be  with  each  other.  It  isn't  anyone  else's 
concern." 

"Anyone  else's  concern!  Anyone  else's  concern!"  replied  her 
mother  viciously.  "What  nonsense.  What  silly,  love-sick  drivel. 
If  you  had  any  idea  of  life,  of  how  the  world  is  organized,  you 
v/ould  laugh  at  yourself.  Ten  years  from  now,  one  year  even, 
you  will  begin  to  see  what  a  terrible  mistake  you  are  trying 
to  make.  You  will  scarcely  believe  that  you  could  have  done 
or  said  what  you  are  doing  and  saying  now.  Anyone  else's  con- 
cern! Oh,  Merciful  Heaven!  Will  nothing  put  even  a  sugges- 
tion of  the  wild,  foolish,  reckless  character  of  the  thing  you  are 
trying  to  do  in  your  mind?" 

"But  I  love  him,  mama,"  said  Suzanne. 


6i2  THE   '"GENIUS" 

"Love!  Love!  You  talk  about  love,"  said  her  mother  bitterly 
and  hysterically.  ''What  do  you  know  about  it?  Do  you 
think  he  can  be  loving  you  when  he  wants  to  come  here  and 
take  you  out  of  a  good  home  and  a  virtuous  social  condition 
and  wreck  your  life,  and  bring  you  down  into  the  mire,  your 
life  and  mine,  and  that  of  your  sisters  and  brother  for  ever  and 
ever  ?  What  does  he  know  of  love  ?  What  do  you  ?  Think  of 
Adele  and  Ninette  and  Kinroy.  Have  you  no  regard  for 
them?  Where  is  your  love  for  me  and  for  them?  Oh,  I  have 
been  so  afraid  that  Kinroy  might  hear  something  of  this.  He 
would  go  and  kill  him.  I  know  he  would.  I  couldn't  prevent  it. 
Oh,  the  shame,  the  scandal,  the  wreck,  it  would  involve  us  all 
in.  Have  you  no  conscience,  Suzanne;  no  heart?" 

Suzanne  stared  before  her  calmly.  The  thought  of  Kinroy 
moved  her  a  little.  He  might  kill  Eugene — she  couldn't  tell — 
he  \vas  a  courageous  boy.  Still  there  was  no  need  for  any 
killing,  or  exposure,  or  excitement  of  any  kind  if  her  mother 
would  only  behave  herself.  What  difference  did  it  make  to  her, 
or  Kinroy,  or  anybody  anywhere  what  she  did?  Why  couldn't 
she  if  she  wanted  to?  The  risk  was  on  her  head.  She  was 
willing.  She  couldn't  see  what  harm  it  would  do. 

She  expressed  this  thought  to  her  mother  once  who  answered 
in  an  impassioned  plea  for  her  to  look  at  the  facts.  "How  many 
evil  women  of  the  kind  and  character  you  would  like  to  make 
of  yourself,  do  you  know?  How  many  would  you  like  to  know? 
How  many  do  you  suppose  there  are  in  good  society?  Look  at 
this  situation  from  Mrs.  Witla's  point  of  view.  How  would 
you  like  to  be  in  her  place?  How  would  you  like  to  be  in 
mine?  Suppose  you  were  Mrs.  Witla  and  Mrs.  Witla  were  the 
other  woman.  What  then?" 

"I  would  let  him  go,"  said  Suzanne. 

"Yes!  Yes!  Yes!  You  would  let  him  go.  You  might,  but 
how  would  you  feel?  How  would  anyone  feel?  Can't  you  see 
the  shame  in  all  this,  the  disgrace?  Have  you  no  comprehen- 
sion at  all?  No  feeling?" 

"Oh,  how  you  talk,  mama.  How  silly  you  talk.  You  don't 
know  the  facts.  Mrs.  Witla  doesn't  love  him  any  more.  She 
told  me  so.  She  has  written  me  so.  I  had  the  letter  and  gave 
it  back  to  Eugene.  He  doesn't  care  for  her.  She  knows  it. 
She  knows  he  cares  for  me.  What  difference  does  it  make  if 
she  doesn't  love  him.  He's  entitled  to  love  somebody.  Now  I 
love  him.  I  want  him.  He  wants  me.  Why  shouldn't  we 
have  each  other?" 

In  spite  of  all  her  threats,  Mrs.  Dale  was  not  without  sub- 


THE    "GENIUS"  613 

sidiary  thoughts  of  what  any  public  move  on  her  part  would 
certainly,  not  probably,  but  immediately  involve.  Eugene  was 
well  known.  To  kill  him,  which  was  really  very  far  from  her 
thoughts,  in  any  save  a  very  secret  way,  would  create  a  tremen- 
dous sensation  and  involve  no  end  of  examination,  discussion, 
excited  publicity.  To  expose  him  to  either  Colfax  or  Winfield 
meant  in  reality  exposing  Suzanne  to  them,  and  possibly  to  mem- 
bers of  her  own  social  set,  for  these  men  were  of  it,  and  might 
talk.  Eugene's  resignation  would  cause  comment.  If  he  left, 
Suzanne  might  run  away  with  him — then  what?  There  was  the 
thought  on  her  part  that  the  least  discussion  or  whisper  of  this 
to  anybody  might  produce  the  most  disastrous  results.  What 
capital  the  so-called  "Yellow"  newspapers  would  make  out  of  a 
story  of  this  character.  How  they  would  gloat  over  the  details. 
It  was  a  most  terrible  and  dangerous  situation,  and  yet  it  was 
plain  that  something  had  to  be  done  and  that  immediately. 
What? 

In  this  crisis  it  occurred  to  her  that  several  things  might  be 
done  and  that  without  great  danger  of  irremediable  conse- 
quences if  she  could  only  have  a  little  time  in  which  Suzanne 
would  promise  to  remain  quiescent  and  do  so.  If  she  could  get 
her  to  say  that  she  would  do  nothing  for  ten  days  or  five  days 
all  might  be  well  for  them.  She  could  go  to  see  Angela, 
Eugene,  Mr.  Colfax,  if  necessary.  To  leave  Suzanne  in 
order  to  go  on  these  various  errands,  she  had  to  obtain  Su- 
zanne's word,  which  she  knew  she  could  respect  absolutely,  that 
she  would  make  no  move  of  any  kind  until  the  time  was  up. 
Under  pretense  that  Suzanne  herself  needed  time  to  think,  or 
should  take  it,  she  pleaded  and  pleaded  until  finally  the  girl, 
on  condition  that  she  be  allowed  to  phone  to  Eugene  and  state 
how  things  stood,  consented.  Eugene  had  called  her  up  on  the 
second  day  after  the  quarrel  began  and  had  been  informed  by  the 
butler,  at  Mrs.  Dale's  request,  that  she  was  out  of  town.  He 
called  the  second  day,  and  got  the  same  answer.  He  wrote  to 
her  and  Mrs.  Dale  hid  the  letter,  but  on  the  fourth  day,  Suzanne 
called  him  up  and  explained.  The  moment  she  did  so,  he  was 
sorry  that  she  had  been  so  hasty  in  telling  her  mother,  terribly 
so,  but  there  was  nothing  to  be  done  now  save  to  stand  by  his 
guns.  He  was  ready  in  a  grim  way  to  rise  or  fall  so  long  as, 
in  doing  either,  he  should  obtain  his  heart's  desire. 

"Shall  I  come  and  help  you  argue?"  he  asked. 

"No,  not  for  five  days.     I  have  given  my  word." 

"Shall  I  see  you?" 

"No,  not  for  five  days,  Eugene." 


614  THE    "GENIUS'1 

"Mayn't  I  even  call  you  up?" 

"No,  not  for  five  days.    After  that,  yes." 

"All  right,  Flower  Face — Divine  Fire.  I'll  obey.  I'm  yours 
to  command.  But,  oh,  sweet,  it's  a  long  time." 

"I  know,  but  it  will  pass." 

"And  you  won't  change?" 

"No." 

"They  can't  make  you?" 

"No,  you  know  they  can't,  dearest.    Why  do  you  ask?" 

"Oh,  I  can't  help  feeling  a  little  fearful,  sweet.  You  are  so 
young,  so  new  to  love." 

"I  won't  change.  I  won't  change.  I  don't  need  to  swear. 
I  won't." 

"Very  well,  then,  Myrtle  Bloom." 

She  hung  up  the  receiver,  and  Mrs.  Dale  knew  now  that  her 
greatest  struggle  was  before  her. 

Her  several  contemplated  moves  consisted  first,  in  going  to 
see  Mrs.  Witla,  unknown  to  Suzanne  and  Eugene,  learning  what 
she  knew  of  how  things  were  and  what  she  would  advise. 

This  really  did  no  good,  unless  the  fact  that  it  fomented  anew 
the  rage  and  grief  of  Angela,  and  gave  Mrs.  Dale  additional 
material  wherewith  to  belabor  Eugene,  could  be  said  to  be  of 
advantage.  Angela,  who  had  been  arguing  and  pleading  with 
Eugene  all  this  time,  endeavoring  by  one  thought  and  another 
to  awaken  him  to  a  sense  of  the  enormity  of  the  offense  he  was 
contemplating,  was  practically  in  despair.  She  had  reached  the 
point  where  she  had  become  rather  savage  again,  and  he  also. 
In  spite  of  her  condition,  in  spite  of  all  she  could  say,  he  was 
cold  and  bitter,  so  insistent  that  he  was  through  with  the  old 
order  that  he  made  her  angry.  Instead  of  leaving  him,  as  she 
might  have  done,  trusting  to  time  to  alter  his  attitude,  or  to 
teach  her  the  wisdom  of  releasing  him  entirely,  she  preferred  to 
cling  to  him,  for  there  was  still  affection  left.  She  was  used 
to  him,  he  was  the  father  of  her  coming  child,  unwelcome  as 
it  was.  He  represented  her  social  position  to  her,  her  station 
in  the  world.  Why  should  she  leave  him?  Then,  too,  there 
was  this  fear  of  the  outcome,  which  would  come  over  her  like 
a  child.  She  might  die.  What  would  become  of  the  child? 

"You  know,  Mrs.  Dale,"  she  said  at  one  point  significantly,  "I 
don't  hold  Suzanne  absolutely  guiltless.  She  is  old  enough  to 
know  better.  She  has  been  out  in  society  long  enough  to  know 
that  a  married  man  is  sacred  property  to  another  woman." 

"I  know,  I  know,"  replied  Mrs.  Dale  resentfully,  but  cau- 
tiously, "but  Suzanne  is  so  young.  You  really  don't  know  how 


THE    "GENIUS"  615 

much  of  a  child  she  is.  And  she  has  this  silly,  idealistic,  emo- 
tional disposition.  I  suspected  something  of  it,  but  I  did  not 
know  it  was  so  strong.  I'm  sure  I  don't  know  where  she  gets 
it.  Her  father  was  most  practical.  But  she  was  all  right  until 
your  husband  persuaded  her." 

"That  may  be  all  true,"  went  on  Angela,  "but  she  is  not 
guiltless.  I  know  Eugene.  He  is  weak,  but  he  will  not  follow 
where  he  is  not  led,  and  no  girl  need  be  tempted  unless  she 
wants  to." 

"Suzanne  is  so  young,"  again  pleaded  Mrs.  Dale. 

"Well,  I'm  sure  if  she  knew  Mr.  Witla's  record  accurately," 
went  on  Angela  foolishly,  "she  wouldn't  want  him.  I  have 
written  her.  She  ought  to  know.  He  isn't  honest  and  he  isn't 
moral  as  this  thing  shows.  If  this  were  the  first  time  he  had 
fallen  in  love  with  another  woman,  I  could  forgive  him,  but 
it  isn't.  He  did  something  quite  as  bad  six  or  seven  years  ago, 
and  only  two  years  before  that  there  was  another  woman.  He 
wouldn't  be  faithful  to  Suzanne  if  he  had  her.  It  would  be  a 
case  of  blazing  affection  for  a  little  while,  and  then  he  would 
tire  and  cast  her  aside.  Why,  you  can  tell  what  sort  of  a 
man  he  is  when  he  would  propose  to  me,  as  he  did  here,  that  I 
should  let  him  maintain  a  separate  establishment  for  Suzanne 
and  say  nothing  of  it.  The  idea!" 

Mrs.  Dale  clicked  her  lips  significantly.  She  considered  An- 
gela foolish  for  talking  in  this  way,  but  it  could  not  be  helped 
now.  Possibly  Eugene  had  made  a  mistake  in  marrying  her. 
This  did  not  excuse  him,  however,  in  her  eyes  for  wanting  to 
take  Suzanne  under  the  conditions  he  proposed.  If  he  were  free, 
it  would  be  an  entirely  different  matter.  His  standing,  his  mind, 
his  manners,  were  not  objectionable,  though  he  was  not  to  the 
manner  born. 

Mrs.  Dale  went  away  toward  evening,  greatly  nonplussed  by 
what  she  had  seen  and  heard,  but  convinced  that  no  possible  good 
could  come  of  the  situation.  Angela  would  never  give  him  a 
divorce.  Eugene  was  not  a  fit  man  morally  for  her  daughter, 
anyhow.  There  was  great  scandal  on  the  verge  of  exposure  here 
in  which  her  beloved  daughter  would  be  irretrievably  smirched. 
In  her  desperation,  she  decided,  if  she  could  do  no  better,  she 
would  try  to  dissuade  Eugene  from  seeing  Suzanne  until  he 
could  obtain  a  divorce,  in  which  case,  to  avoid  something  worse, 
she  would  agree  to  a  marriage,  but  this  was  only  to  be  a  lip 
promise.  The  one  thing  she  wanted  to  do  was  to  get  Suzanne 
to  give  him  up  entirely.  If  Suzanne  could  be  spirited  away, 
or  dissuaded  from  throwing  herself  away  on  Eugene,  that  would 


616  THE    "GENIUS" 

be  the  thing.  Still,  she  proposed  to  see  what  a  conversation 
with  Eugene  would  do. 

The  next  morning  as  he  was  sitting  in  his  office  wondering 
what  the  delay  of  five  days  portended,  and  what  Suzanne  was 
doing,  as  well  as  trying  to  fix  his  mind  on  the  multitudinous 
details  which  required  his  constant  attention,  and  were  now  being 
rather  markedly  neglected,  the  card  of  Mrs.  Emily  Dale  was 
laid  on  his  table,  and  a  few  moments  later,  after  his  secretary 
had  been  dismissed,  and  word  given  that  no  one  else  was  to  be 
allowed  to  enter,  Mrs.  Dale  was  shown  in. 

She  was  pale  and  weary,  but  exquisitely  dressed  in  a  green- 
ish blue  silk  and  picture  hat  of  black  straw  and  feathers.  She 
looked  quite  young  and  handsome  herself,  not  too  old  for  Eu- 
gene, and  indeed  once  she  had  fancied  he  might  well  fall  in 
love  with  her.  What  her  thoughts  were  at  that  time,  she  was 
not  now  willing  to  recall,  for  they  had  involved  the  probable  de- 
sertion or  divorce,  or  death  of  Angela,  and  Eugene's  passionate 
infatuation  for  her.  All  that  was  over  now,  of  course,  and  in 
the  excitement  and  distress,  almost  completely  obliterated.  Eu- 
gene had  not  forgotten  that  he  had  had  similar  sensations  or 
imaginations  at  the  time,  and  that  Mrs.  Dale  had  always  drawn 
to  him  in  a  sympathetic  and  friendly  way.  Here  she  was, 
though,  this  morning  coming  upon  a  desperate  mission  no  doubt, 
and  he  would  have  to  contend  with  her  as  best  he  could. 

The  conversation  opened  by  his  looking  into  her  set  face  as 
she  approached  and  smiling  blandly,  though  it  was  something 
of  an  effort.  "Well,"  he  said,  in  quite  a  business  like  way, 
"what  can  I  do  for  you?" 

"You  villain,"  she  exclaimed  melodramatically,  "my  daughter 
has  told  me  all." 

"Yes,  Suzanne  phoned  me  that  she  told  you,"  he  replied,  in 
a  conciliatory  tone. 

"Yes,"  she  said  in  a  low,  tense  voice,  "and  I  ought  to  kill 
you  where  you  stand.  To  think  that  I  should  have  ever  har- 
bored such  a  monster  as  you  in  my  home  and  near  my  dear,  inno- 
cent daughter.  It  seems  incredible  now.  I  can't  believe  it. 
That  you  should  dare.  And  you  with  a  dear,  sweet  wife  at 
home,  sick  and  in  the  condition  she  is  in.  I  should  think  if  you 
had  any  manhood  at  all — any  sense  of  shame!  When  I  think 
of  that  poor,  dear  little  woman,  and  what  you  have  been  doing, 
or  trying  to  do — if  it  weren't  for  the  scandal  you  would  never 
leave  this  office  alive." 

"Oh,  bother!  Don't  talk  rot,  Mrs.  Dale,"  said  Eugene 
quietly,  though  irritably.  He  did  not  care  for  her  melodramatic 


THE   "GENIUS'  617 

attitude.  "The  dear,  darling  little  woman  you  speak  of  is  not  as 
badly  off  as  you  think,  and  I  don't  think  she  needs  as  much  of 
your  sympathy  as  you  are  so  anxious  to  give.  She  is  pretty 
well  able  to  take  care  of  herself,  sick  as  she  is.  As  for  killing 
me,  you  or  anyone  else,  well  that  wouldn't  be  such  a  bad  idea. 
I'm  not  so  much  in  love  with  life.  This  is  not  fifty  years  ago, 
though,  but  the  nineteenth  century,  and  this  is  New  York  City. 
I  love  Suzanne.  She  loves  me.  We  want  each  other  desperately. 
Now,  an  arrangement  can  be  made  which  will  not  interfere 
with  you  in  any  way,  and  which  will  adjust  things  for  us.  Su- 
zanne is  anxious  to  make  that  arrangement.  It  is  as  much  her 
proposition  as  it  is  mine.  Why  should  you  be  so  vastly  disturbed? 
You  know  a  great  deal  about  life." 

"Why  should  I  be  disturbed?  Why  should  I?  Can  you  sit 
in  this  office,  you  a  man  in  charge  of  all  this  vast  public  work, 
and  ask  me  in  cold  blood  why  I  should  be  disturbed?  And  my 
daughter's  very  life  at  stake.  Why  should  I  be  disturbed  and 
my  daughter  only  out  of  her  short  dresses  a  little  while  ago  and 
practically  innocent  of  the  world.  You  dare  to  tell  me  that  she 
proposed!  Oh,  you  impervious  scoundrel!  To  think  I  could  be 
so  mistaken  in  any  human  being.  You,  with  your  bland  manners 
and  your  inconsistent  talk  of  happy  family  life.  I  might  have 
understood,  though,  when  I  saw  you  so  often  without  your  wife. 
I  should  have  known.  I  did,  God  help  me!  but  I  didn't  act 
upon  it.  I  was  taken  by  your  bland,  gentlemanly  attitude.  I 
don't  blame  poor,  dear  little  Suzanne.  I  blame  you,  you  utterly 
deceiving  villain  and  myself  for  being  so  silly.  I  am  being 
justly  rewarded,  however." 

Eugene  merely  looked  at  her  and  drummed  with  his  fingers. 

"But  I  did  not  come  here  to  bandy  words  with  you,"  she  went 
on.  "I  came  to  say  that  you  must  never  see  my  daughter  again, 
or  speak  of  her,  or  appear  where  she  might  chance  to  be,  though 
she  won't  be  where  you  may  appear,  if  I  have  my  way,  for  you 
wron't  have  a  chance  to  appear  anywhere  in  decent  society  very 
much  longer.  I  shall  go,  unless  you  agree  here  and  now  never 
to  see  or  communicate  with  her  any  more,  to  Mr.  Colfax,  whom 
I  know  personally,  as  you  are  aware,  and  lay  the  whole  matter 
before  him.  I'm  sure  with  what  I  know  now  of  your  record, 
and  what  you  have  attempted  to  do  in  connection  with  my 
daughter,  and  the  condition  of  your  wife,  that  he  will  not 
require  your  services  very  much  longer.  I  shall  go  to  Mr. 
Winfield,  who  is  also  an  old  friend,  and  lay  the  matter  before 
him.  Privately  you  will  be  drummed  out  of  society  and  my 
daughter  will  be  none  the  worse  for  it.  She  is  so  very  young 


618  THE   "GENIUS" 

that  wnen  the  facts  are  known,  you  are  the  only  one  who  will 
bear  the  odium  of  this.  Your  wife  has  given  me  your  wretched 
record  only  yesterday.  You  would  like  to  make  my  Suzanne  your 
fourth  or  fifth.  Well,  you  will  not.  I  will  show  you  some- 
thing you  have  not  previously  known.  You  are  dealing  with  a 
desperate  mother.  Defy  me  if  you  dare.  I  demand  that  you 
write  your  farewell  to  Suzanne  here  and  now,  and  let  me  take 
it  to  her." 

Eugene  smiled  sardonically.  Mrs.  Dale's  reference  to  Angela 
made  him  bitter.  She  had  been  there  and  Angela  had  talked 
of  him — his  past  to  her.  What  a  mean  thing  to  do.  After  all, 
Angela  was  his  wife.  Only  the  morning  before,  she  had  been 
appealing  to  him  on  the  grounds  of  love,  and  she  had  not  told 
him  of  Mrs.  Dale's  visit.  Love!  Love!  What  sort  of  love 
was  this?  He  had  done  enough  for  her  to  make  her  generous 
in  a  crisis  like  this,  even  if  she  did  not  want  to  be. 

"Write  you  a  statement  of  release  to  Suzanne?"  he  observed, 
his  lips  curling — "how  silly.  Of  course,  I  won't.  And  as  for 
your  threat  to  run  to  Mr.  Colfax,  I  have  heard  that  before 
from  Mrs.  Witla.  There  is  the  door.  His  office  is  twelve  flights 
down.  I'll  call  a  boy,  if  you  wish.  You  tell  it  to  Mr.  Colfax 
and  see  how  much  farther  it  goes  before  you  are  much  older. 
Run  to  Mr.  Winfield  also.  A  lot  I  care  about  him  or  Mr. 
Colfax.  If  you  want  a  grand,  interesting  discussion  of  this 
thing,  just  begin.  It  will  go  far  and  wide,  I  assure  you.  I  love 
your  daughter.  I'm  desperate  about  her.  I'm  literally  crazy 
about  her" — he  got  up — "she  "loves  me,  or  I  think  she  does. 
Anyhow,  I'm  banking  all  on  that  thought.  My  life  from  the 
point  of  view  of  affection  has  been  a  failure.  I  have  never  really 
been  in  love  before,  but  I  am  crazy  about  Suzanne  Dale.  I  am 
wild  about  her.  If  you  had  any  sympathy  for  an  unhappy,  sym- 
pathetic, emotional  mortal,  who  has  never  yet  been  satisfied  in  a 
woman,  you  would  give  her  to  me.  I  love  her.  I  love  her.  By 
God!" — he  banged  the  desk  with  his  fist — "I  will  do  anything 
for  her.  If  she  will  come  to  me,  Colfax  can  have  his  position, 
Winfield  can  have  his  Blue  Sea  Corporation.  You  can  have  her 
money,  if  she  wants  to  give  it  to  you.  I  can  make  a  living  abroad 
by  my  art,  and  I  will.  Other  Americans  have  done  it  before  me. 
I  love  her!  I  love  her!  Do  you  hear  me?  I  love  her,  and 
what's  more,  I'm  going  to  have  her!  You  can't  stop  me.  You 
haven't  the  brains ;  you  haven't  the  strength ;  you  haven't  the  re- 
sources to  match  that  girl.  She's  brighter  than  you  are.  She's 
stronger,  she's  finer.  She's  finer  than  the  whole  current  day 
conception  of  society  and  life.  She  loves  me  and  she  wants  to 


THE    "GENIUS  "  619 

give  herself  to  me,  willingly,  freely,  joyously.  Match  that  in 
your  petty  society  circles  if  you  can.  Society!  You  say  you 
will  have  me  drummed  out  of  it,  will  you?  A  lot  I  care  about 
your  society.  Hacks,  mental  light  weights,  money  grubbers, 
gamblers,  thieves,  leeches — a  fine  lot!  To  see  you  sitting  there 
and  talking  to  me  with  your  grand  air  makes  me  laugh.  A  lot 
I  care  for  you.  I  was  thinking  of  another  kind  of  woman  when 
I  met  you,  not  a  narrow,  conventional  fool.  I  thought  I  saw 
one  in  you.  I  did,  didn't  I — not?  You  are  like  all  the  rest, 
a  narrow,  petty  slavish  follower  after  fashion  and  convention. 
Well,"  he  snapped  his  fingers  in  her  face,  "go  on  and  do  your 
worst.  I  will  get  Suzanne  in  the  long  run.  She  will  come  to 
me.  She  will  dominate  you.  Run  to  Colfax!  Run  to  Win- 
field!  I  will  get  her  just  the  same.  She's  mine.  She  belongs 
to  me.  She  is  big  enough  for  me.  The  Gods  have  given  her 
to  me,  and  I  will  have  her  if  I  have  to  smash  you  and  your  home 
and  myself  and  everyone  else  connected  with  me.  I'll  have  her! 
I'll  have  her!  She  is  mine!  She  is  mine!"  He  lifted  a  tense 
hand.  "Now  you  run  and  do  anything  you  want  to.  Thank 
God,  I've  found  one  woman  who  knows  how  to  live  and  love. 
She's  mine!" 

Mrs.  Dale  stared  at  him  in  amazement,  scarcely  believing  her 
ears.  Was  he  crazy?  Was  he  really  so  much  in  love?  Had 
Suzanne  turned  his  brain?  What  an  astonishing  thing.  She 
had  never  seen  him  anything  like  this — never  imagined  him  ca- 
pable of  anything  like  it.  He  was  always  so  quiet,  smiling, 
bland,  witty.  Here  he  was  dramatic,  impassioned,  fiery,  hungry. 
There  was  a  terrible  light  in  his  eyes  and  he  was  desperate. 
He  must  be  in  love. 

"Oh,  why  will  you  do  this  to  me?"  she  whimpered  all  at 
once.  The  terror  of  his  mood  conveying  itself  to  her  for  the 
moment,  and  arousing  a  sympathy  which  she  had  not  previously 
felt.  "Why  will  you  come  into  my  home  and  attempt  to  de- 
stroy it?  There  are  lots  of  women  who  will  love  you.  There 
are  lots  more  suited  to  your  years  and  temperament  than  Su- 
zanne. She  doesn't  understand  you.  She  doesn't  understand 
herself.  She  is  just  young,  and  foolish  and  hypnotized.  You 
have  hypnotized  her.  Oh,  why  will  you  do  this  to  me?  You 
are  so  much  older  than  her,  so  much  more  schooled  in  life. 
Why  not  give  her  up?  I  don't  want  to  go  to  Mr.  Colfax.  I 
don't  want  to  speak  to  Mr.  Winfield.  I  will,  if  I  have  to, 
but  I  don't  want  to.  I  have  always  thought  so  well  of  you. 
I  know  you  are  not  an  ordinary  man.  Restore  my  respect  for 
you,  my  confidence  in  you.  I  can  forgive,  if  I  can't  forget.  You 


620  THE   '"GENIUS" 

may  not  be  happily  married.  I  am  sorry  for  you.  I  don't  want 
to  do  anything  desperate.  I  only  want  to  save  poor,  little  Su- 
zanne. Oh,  please!  please!  I  love  her  so.  I  don't  think  you 
understand  how  I  feel.  You  may  be  in  love,  but  you  ought  to 
be  willing  to  consider  others.  True  love  would.  I  know  that 
she  is  hard  and  wilful  and  desperate  now,  but  she  will  change 
if  you  will  help  her.  Why,  if  you  really  love  her,  if  you  have 
any  sympathy  for  me  or  regard  for  her  future,  or  your  own,  you 
will  renounce  your  schemes  and  release  her.  Tell  her  you  made 
a  mistake.  Write  to  her  now.  Tell  her  you  can't  do  this  and 
not  socially  ruin  her  and  me  and  yourself,  and  so  you  won't  do 
it.  Tell  her  that  you  have  decided  to  wait  until  time  has  made 
you  a  free  man,  if  that  is  to  be,  and  then  let  her  have  a  chance 
of  seeing  if  she  will  not  be  happy  in  a  normal  life.  You  don't 
want  to  ruin  her  at  this  age,  do  you?  She  is  so  young,  so 
innocent.  Oh,  if  you  have  any  judgment  of  life  at  all,  any 
regard,  any  consideration,  anything,  I  beg  of  you;  I  beg  as  her 
mother,  for  I  love  her.  Oh!"  Tears  came  into  her  eyes  again 
and  she  cried  weakly  in  her  handkerchief. 

Eugene  stared  at  her.  What  was  he  doing?  Where  was  he 
going?  Was  he  really  as  bad  as  he  appeared  to  be  here?  Was 
he  possessed?  Was  he  really  so  hard-hearted?  Through  her 
grief  and  Angela's  and  the  threats  concerning  Colfax  and  Win- 
field,  he  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  real  heart  of  the  situation.  It 
was  as  if  there  had  been  a  great  flash  of  lightning  illuminating 
a  black  landscape.  He  saw  sympathetically,  sorrow,  folly,  a 
number  of  things  that  were  involved,  and  then  the  next  moment, 
it  was  gone.  Suzanne's  face  came  back,  smooth,  classic,  chiseled, 
perfectly  modeled,  her  beauty  like  a  tightened  bow;  her  eyes,  her 
lips,  her  hair,  the  gaiety  and  buoyancy  of  her  motions  and  her 
smile.  Give  her  up!  Give  up  Suzanne  and  that  dream  of  the 
studio,  and  of  joyous,  continuous,  delicious  companionship?  Did 
Suzanne  want  him  to?  What  had  she  said  over  the  phone?  No! 
No!  No!  Quit  now,  and  her  clinging  to  him.  No!  No! 
No!  Never!!  He  would  fight  first.  He  would  go  down  fight- 
ing. Never!  Never!  Never! 

His  brain  seethed. 

"I  can't  do  it,"  he  said,  getting  up  again,  for  he  had  sat  down 
after  his  previous  tirade.  "I  can't  do  it.  You  are  asking  some- 
thing that  is  utterly  impossible.  It  can  never  be  done.  God 
help  me,  I'm  insane,  I'm  wild  over  her.  Go  and  do  anything 
you  want  to,  but  I  must  have  her  and  I  will.  She's  mine!  She's 
mine!  She's  mine!" 

His  thin,  lean  hands  clenched  and  he  clicked  his  teeth. 


THE   "GENIUS"  621 

"Mine,  mine,  mine!"  he  muttered,  and  one  would  have  thought 
him  a  villain  in  a  cheap  melodrama. 

Mrs.   Dale  shook  her  head. 

"God  help  us  both !"  she  said.  "You  shall  never,  never  have 
her.  You  are  not  worthy  of  her.  You  are  not  right  in  your 
mind.  I  will  fight  you  with  all  the  means  in  my  power.  I  am 
desperate!  I  am  wealthy.  I  know  how  to  fight.  You  shall 
not  have  her.  Now  we  will  see  which  will  win."  She  rose  to 
go  and  Eugene  followed  her. 

"Go  ahead,"  he  said  calmly,  "but  in  the  end  you  lose.  Suzanne 
comes  to  me.  I  know  it.  I  feel  it.  I  may  lose  many  other 
things,  but  I  get  her.  She's  mine." 

"Oh,"  sighed  Mrs.  Dale  wearily,  half  believing  him  and  mov- 
ing towards  the  door.  "Is  this  your  last  word?" 

"It  is  positively." 

"Then   I  must  be  going." 

"Good-bye,"  he  said  solemnly. 

"Good-bye,"  she  answered,  white  faced,  her  eyes  staring. 

She  went  out  and  Eugene  took  up  the  telephone;  but  he 
remembered  that  Suzanne  had  warned  him  not  to  call,  but 
to  depend  on  her.  So  he  put  it  down  again. 


CHAPTER  XV 

THE  fire  and  pathos  of  Mrs.  Dale's  appeal  should  have  given 
Eugene  pause.  He  thought  once  of  going  after  her  and 
making  a  further  appeal,  saying  that  he  would  try  and  get  a 
divorce  eventually  and  marry  Suzanne,  but  he  remembered  that 
peculiar  insistency  of  Suzanne  on  the  fact  that  she  did  not  want 
to  get  married.  Somehow,  somewhere,  somewhy,  she  had  formu- 
lated this  peculiar  ideal  or  attitude,  which  whatever  the  world 
might  think  of  it,  was  possible  of  execution,  providing  he  and 
she  were  tactful  enough.  It  was  not  such  a  wild  thing  for  two 
people  to  want  to  come  together  in  this  way,  if  they  chose, 
he  thought.  Why  was  it?  Heaven  could  witness  there  were 
enough  illicit  and  peculiar  relationships  in  this  world  to  prevent 
society  from  becoming  excited  about  one  more,  particularly  when 
it  was  to  be  conducted  in  so  circumspect  and  subtle  a  way.  He 
and  Suzanne  did  not  intend  to  blazon  their  relationship  to  the 
world.  As  a  distinguished  artist,  not  active,  but  acknowledged 
and  accomplished,  he  was  entitled  to  a  studio  life.  He  and 
Suzanne  could  meet  there.  Nothing  would  be  thought  of  it. 
Why  had  she  insisted  on  telling  her  mother?  It  could  all  have 
been  done  without  that.  There  was  another  peculiar  ideal  of 
hers,  her  determination  to  tell  the  truth  under  all  circumstances. 
And  yet  she  had  really  not  told  it.  She  had  deceived  her  mother 
a  long  time  about  him  simply  by  saying  nothing.  Was  this 
some  untoward  trick  of  fate's,  merely  devised  to  harm  him? 
Surely  not.  And  yet  Suzanne's  headstrong  determination  seemed 
almost  a  fatal  mistake  now.  He  sat  down  brooding  over  it. 
Was  this  a  terrific  blunder?  Would  he  be  sorry?  All  his  life 
was  in  the  balance.  Should  he  turn  back? 

No!  No!  No!  Never!  It  was  not  to  be.  He  must  go 
on.  He  must!  He  must!  So  he  brooded. 

The  next  of  Mrs.  Dale's  resources  was  not  quite  so  unavail- 
ing as  the  others,  though  it  was  almost  so.  She  had  sent  for 
Dr.  Latson  Woolley,  her  family  physician — an  old  school  prac- 
titioner of  great  repute,  of  rigid  honor  and  rather  Christian 
principles  himself,  but  also  of  a  wide  intellectual  and  moral  dis- 
cernment, so  far  as  others  were  concerned. 

4 Well,  Mrs.  Dale,"  he  observed,  when  he  was  ushered  into 
her  presence  in  the  library  on  the  ground  floor,  and  extending 
his  hand  cordially,  though  wearily,  "what  can  I  do  for  you 
this  morning?" 

622 


THE    "GENIUS"  623 

"Oh,  Dr.  Woolley,"  she  began  directly,  "I  am  in  so  much 
trouble.  It  isn't  a  case  of  sickness.  I  wish  it  were.  It  is 
something  so  much  worse.  I  have  sent  for  you  because  I  know 
I  can  rely  on  your  judgment  and  sympathy.  It  concerns  my 
daughter,  Suzanne.'* 

"Yes,  yes,"  he  grunted,  in  a  rather  crusty  voice,  for  his 
vocal  cords  were  old,  and  his  eyes  looked  out  from  under  shaggy, 
gray  eyebrows  which  somehow  bespoke  a  world  of  silent  obser- 
vation. "What's  the  matter  with  her?  What  has  she  done  now 
that  she  ought  not  to  do?" 

"Oh,  doctor,"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Dale  nervously,  for  the  experi- 
ences of  the  last  few  days  had  almost  completely  dispelled  her 
normal  composure,  "I  don't  know  how  to  tell  you,  really.  I 
don't  know  how  to  begin.  Suzanne,  my  dear  precious  Suzanne, 
in  whom  I  have  placed  so  much  faith  and  reliance  has,  has " 

"Well,  tell  me,"  interrupted  Dr.  Woolley  laconically. 

When  she  had  told  him  the  whole  story,  and  answered  some 
of  his  incisive  questions,  he  said: 

"Well,  I  am  thinking  you  have  a  good  deal  to  be  grateful  for. 
She  might  have  yielded  without  your  knowledge  and  told  you 
afterwards — or  not  at  all." 

"Not  at  all.     Oh,  doctor!     My  Suzanne!" 

"Mrs.  Dale,  I  looked  after  you  and  your  mother  before  you 
and  Suzanne.  I  know  something  about  human  nature  and  your 
family  characteristics.  Your  husband  was  a  very  determined 
man,  as  you  will  remember.  Suzanne  may  have  some  of  his 
traits  in  her.  She  is  a  very  young  girl,  you  want  to  remember, 
very  robust  and  vigorous.  How  old  is  this  Witla  man?" 

"About  thirty-eight  or  nine,  doctor." 

"Um!  I  suspected  as  much.  The  fatal  age.  It's  a  wonder 
you  came  through  that  period  as  safely  as  you  did.  You're 
nearly  forty,  aren't  you?" 

"Yes,  doctor,  but  you're  the  only  one  that  knows  it." 

"I  know,  I  know.  It's  the  fatal  age.  You  say  he  is  in 
charge  of  the  United  Magazines  Corporation.  I  have  prob- 
ably heard  of  him.  I  know  of  Mr.  Colfax  of  that  company.  Is 
he  very  emotional  in  his  temperament?" 

"I  had  never  thought  so  before  this." 

"Well,  he  probably  is.  Thirty-eight  to  thirty-nine  and  eight- 
een or  nineteen — bad  combination.  Where  is  Suzanne?" 

"Upstairs  in  her  room,  I  fancy." 

"It  might  not  be  a  bad  thing  if  I  talked  to  her  myself  a  little, 
though  I  don't  believe  it  will  do  any  good." 

Mrs.  Dale  disappeared  and  was  gone  for  nearly  three-quarters 


624  THE   "GENIUS" 

of  an  hour.  Suzanne  was  stubborn,  irritable,  and  to  all  pre- 
liminary entreaties  insisted  that  she  would  not.  Why  should 
her  mother  call  in  outsiders,  particularly  Dr.  Woolley,  whom  she 
knew  and  liked.  She  suspected  at  once  when  her  mother  said 
Dr.  Woolley  wanted  to  see  her  that  it  had  something  to  do 
with  her  case,  and  demanded  to  know  why.  Finally,  after  much 
pleading,  she  consented  to  come  down,  though  it  was  with  the 
intention  of  showing  her  mother  how  ridiculous  all  her  excite- 
ment was. 

The  old  doctor  who  had  been  meditating  upon  the  inex- 
plicable tangle,  chemical  and  physical,  of  life — the  blowing 
hither  and  thither  of  diseases,  affections,  emotions  and  hates 
of  all  kinds,  looked  up  quizzically  as  Suzanne  entered. 

"Well,  Suzanne,"  he  said  genially,  rising  and  walking  slowly 
toward  her,  "I'm  glad  to  see  you  again.  How  are  you  this 
morning?" 

"Pretty  well,  doctor,  how  are  you?" 

"Oh,  as  you  see,  as  you  see,  a  little  older  and  a  little  fussier, 
Suzanne,  making  other  people's  troubles  my  own.  Your  mother 
tells  me  you  have  fallen  in  love.  That's  an  interesting  thing 
to  do,  isn't  it?" 

"You  know,  doctor,"  said  Suzanne  defiantly,  "I  told  mama 
that  I  don't  care  to  discuss  this,  and  I  don't  think  she  has 
any  right  to  try  to  make  me.  I  don't  want  to  and  I  won't.  I 
think  it  is  all  in  rather  poor  taste." 

"Poor  taste,  Suzanne?"  asked  Mrs.  Dale.  "Do  you  call  our 
discussion  of  what  you  want  to  do  poor  taste,  when  the  world 
will  think  that  what  you  want  to  do  is  terrible  when  you 
do  it?" 

"I  told  you,  mama,  that  I  was  not  coming  down  here  to  dis- 
cuss this  thing,  and  I'm  not!"  said  Suzanne,  turning  to  her 
mother  and  ignoring  Dr.  Woolley.  "I'm  not  going  to  stay.  I 
don't  want  to  offend  Dr.  Woolley,  but  I'm  not  going  to  stay 
and  have  you  argue  this  all  over  again." 

She  turned  to  go. 

"There,  there,  Mrs.  Dale,  don't  interrupt,"  observed  Dr. 
Woolley,  holding  Suzanne  by  the  very  tone  of  his  voice.  "I 
think  myself  that  very  little  is  to  be  gained  by  argument. 
Suzanne  is  cpnvinced  that  what  she  is  planning  to  do  is  to  her 
best  interest.  It  may  be.  We  can't  always  tell.  I  think  the 
best  thing  that  could  be  discussed,  if  anything  at  all  in  this 
matter  can  be  discussed,  is  the  matter  of  time.  It  is  my  opinion 
that  before  doing  this  thing  that  Suzanne  wants  to  do,  and  which 
may  be  all  right,  for  all  I  know,  it  would  be  best  if  she  would 


THE "GENIUS"  625 

take  a  little  time.  I  know  nothing  of  Mr.  Witla.  He  may  be 
a  most  able  and  worthy  man.  Suzanne  ought  to  give  herself 
a  little  time  to  think,  though.  I  should  say  three  months,  01 
six  months.  A  great  many  after  effects  hang  on  this  decision, 
as  you  know,"  he  said,  turning  to  Suzanne.  "It  may  involve 
responsibilities  you  are  not  quite  ready  to  shoulder.  You  are 
only  eighteen  or  nineteen,  you  know.  You  might  have  to  give 
up  dancing  and  society,  and  travel,  and  a  great  many  things,  and 
devote  yourself  to  being  a  mother  and  ministering  to  your  hus- 
band's needs.  You  expect  to  live  with  him  permanently,  don't 
you  ?" 

"I  don't  want  to  discuss  this,  Dr.  Woolley." 

"But  you  do  expect  that,   don't  you?" 

"Only  as  long  as  we  love  each  other." 

"Um,  well,  you  might  love  him  for  some  little  time  yet. 
You  rather  expect  to  do  that,  don't  you?" 

"Why,  yes,  but  what  is  the  good  of  this,  anyhow?  My  mind 
is  made  up." 

"Just  the  matter  of  thinking,"  said  Dr.  Woolley,  very  sooth- 
ingly and  in  a  voice  which  disarmed  Suzanne  and  held  her. 
"Just  a  little  time  in  which  to  be  absolutely  sure.  Your  mother 
is  anxious  not  to  have  you  do  it  at  all.  You,  as  I  understand 
it,  want  to  do  this  thing  right  away.  Your  mother  loves  you, 
and  at  bottom,  in  spite  of  this  little  difference,  I  know  you  love 
her.  It  just  occurred  to  me  that  for  the  sake  of  good  feeling 
all  around,  you  might  like  to  strike  a  balance.  You  might  be 
willing  to  take,  say  six  months,  or  a  year  and  think  about  it. 
Mr.  Witla  would  probably  not  object.  You  won't  be  any 
the  less  delightful  to  him  at  the  end  of  that  time,  and  as  for 
your  mother,  she  would  feel  a  great  deal  better  if  she  thought 
that,  after  all,  what  you  decided  to  do  you  had  done  after  mature 
deliberation." 

"Yes,"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Dale,  impulsively,  "do  take  time  to 
think,  Suzanne.  A  year  won't  hurt  you." 

"No,"  said  Suzanne  unguardedly.  "It  is  all  a  matter  of 
whether  I  want  to  or  not.  I  don't  want  to." 

"Precisely.  Still  this  is  something  you  might  take  into  con- 
sideration. The  situation  from  all  outside  points  of  view  is  seri- 
ous. I  haven't  said  so,  but  I  feel  that  you  would  be  making  a 
great  mistake.  Still,  that  is  only  my  opinion.  You  are  en- 
titled to  yours.  I  know  how  you  feel  about  it,  but  the  public 
is  not  likely  to  feel  quite  the  same.  The  public  is  a  wearisome 
thing,  Suzanne,  but  we  have  to  take  it  into  consideration." 

Suzanne   stared   stubbornly   and   wearily   at   her   tormentors. 


626  THE    '"GENIUS" 

Their  logic  did  not  appeal  to  her  at  all.  She  was  thinking  of 
Eugene  and  her  plan.  It  could  be  worked.  What  did  she  care 
about  the  world?  During  all  this  talk,  she  drew  nearer  and 
nearer  the  door  and  finally  opened  it. 

"Well,  that  is  all,"  said  Dr.  Woolley,  when  he  saw  she  was 
determined  to  go.  "Good  morning,  Suzanne.  I  am  glad  to 
have  seen  you  again." 

"Good  morning,  Dr.  Woolley,"  she  replied. 

She  went  out  and  Mrs.  Dale  wrung  her  hands.  "I  wish  I 
knew  what  was  to  be  done,"  she  exclaimed,  gazing  at  her  coun- 
selor. 

Dr.  Woolley  brooded  over  the  folly  of  undesired  human 
counsel. 

"There  is  no  need  for  excitement,"  he  observed  after  a  time. 
"It  is  obvious  to  me  that  if  she  is  handled  rightly,  she  will  wait. 
She  is  in  a  state  of  high  strung  opposition  and  emotion  for  some 
reason  at  present.  You  have  driven  her  too  hard.  Relax.  Let 
her  think  this  thing  out  for  herself.  Counsel  for  delay,  but 
don't  irritate.  You  cannot  control  her  by  driving.  She  has 
too  stern  a  will.  Tears  won't  help.  Emotion  seems  a  little 
silly  to  her.  Ask  her  to  think,  or  better  yet,  let  her  think  and 
plead  only  for  delay.  If  you  could  get  her  away  for  two  or  three 
weeks  or  months,  off  by  herself  undisturbed  by  your  pleadings 
and  uninfluenced  by  his — if  she  would  ask  him  of  her  own  ac- 
cord to  let  her  alone  for  that  time,  all  will  be  well.  I  don't 
think  she  will  ever  go  to  him.  She  thinks  she  will,  but  I  have 
the  feeling  that  she  won't.  However,  be  calm.  If  you  can,  get 
her  to  go  away." 

"Would  it  be  possible  to  lock  her  up  in  some  sanatorium  or 
asylum,  doctor,  until  she  has  had  time  to  think?" 

"All  things  are  possible,  but  I  should  say  it  would  be  the 
most  inadvisable  thing  you  could  do.  Force  accomplishes  noth- 
ing in  these  cases." 

"I  know,  but  suppose  she  won't  listen  to  reason?" 

"You  really  haven't  come  to  that  bridge  yet.  You  haven't 
talked  calmly  to  her  yet.  You  are  quarreling  with  her.  There 
is  very  little  in  that.  You  will  simply  grow  further  and  fur- 
ther apart." 

"How  practical  you  are,  doctor,"  observed  Mrs.  Dale,  in  a 
mollified  and  complimentary  vein. 

"Not  practical,  but  intuitional.  If  I  were  practical,  I  would 
never  have  taken  up  medicine." 

He  walked  to  the  door,  his  old  body  sinking  in  somewhat 


THE    "GENIUS"  627 


| 


upon  itself.     His  old,  gray  eyes  twinkled  slightly  as  he  turned. 

"You  were  in  love  once,  Mrs.  Dale,"  he  said. 

"Yes,"  she  replied. 

"You  remember  how  you  felt  then?" 

"Yes." 

"Be  reasonable.  Remember  your  own  sensations — your  own 
attitude.  You  probably  weren't  crossed  in  your  affair.  She  is. 
She  has  made  a  mistake.  Be  patient.  Be  calm.  We  want  to 
stop  it  and  no  doubt  can.  Do  unto  others  as  you  would  be 
done  by." 

He  ambled  shufflingly  across  the  piazza  and  down  the  wide 
steps  to  his  car. 

"Mama,"  she  said,  when  after  Dr.  Woolley  had  gone  her 
mother  came  to  her  room  to  see  if  she  might  not  be  in  a  mel- 
lower mood,  and  to  plead  with  her  further  for  delay,  "it  seems 
to  me  you  are  making  a  ridiculous  mess  of  all  this.  Why  should 
you  go  and  tell  Dr.  Woolley  about  me!  I  will  never  forgive 
you  for  that.  Mama,  you  have  done  something  I  never  thought 
you  would  do.  I  thought  you  had  more  pride — more  individ- 
uality." 

One  should  have  seen  Suzanne,  in  her  spacious  boudoir,  her 
back  to  her  oval  mirrored  dressing  table,  her  face  fronting  her 
mother,  to  understand  her  fascination  for  Eugene.  It  was  a 
lovely,  sunny,  many  windowed  chamber,  and  Suzanne  in  a  white 
and  blue  morning  dress  was  in  charming  accord  with  the  gay 
atmosphere  of  the  room. 

"Well,  Suzanne,  you  know,"  she  said,  rather  despondently, 
"I  just  couldn't  help  it.  I  had  to  go  to  someone.  I  am  quite 
alone  apart  from  you  and  Kinroy  and  the  children" — she  referred 
to  Adele  and  Ninette  as  the  children  when  talking  to  either  Su- 
zanne or  Kinroy — "and  I  didn't  want  to  say  anything  to  them. 
You  have  been  my  only  confidant  up  to  now,  and  since  you  have 
turned  against  me " 

"I  haven't  turned  against  you,  mama." 

"Oh,  yes  you  have.  Let's  not  talk  about  it,  Suzanne.  You 
have  broken  my  heart.  You  are  killing  me.  I  just  had  to  go 
to  someone.  We  have  known  Dr.  Woolley  so  long.  He  is  so 
good  and  kind." 

"Oh,  I  know,  mama,  but  what  good  will  it  do?  How  can 
anything  he  might  say  help  matters?  He  isn't  going  to  change 
me.  You're  only  telling  it  to  somebody  who  oughtn't  to  know 
anything  about  it." 

"But  I  thought  he  might  influence  you,"  pleaded  Mrs.  Dale. 


628  THE    "GENIUS" 

"I  thought  you  would  listen  to  him.  Oh,  dear,  oh,  dear.  I'm 
so  tired  of  it  all.  I  wish  I  were  dead.  I  wish  I  had  never 
lived  to  see  this." 

"Now  there  you  go,  mama,"  said  Suzanne  confidently.  "I 
can't  see  why  you  are  so  distressed  about  what  I  am  going  to 
do.  It  is  my  life  that  I  am  planning  to  arrange,  not  yours. 
I  have  to  live  my  life,  mama,  not  you." 

"Oh,  yes,  but  it  is  just  that  that  distresses  me.  What  will 
it  be  after  you  do  this — after  you  throw  it  away?  Oh,  if 
you  could  only  see  what  you  are  contemplating  doing — what  a 
wretched  thing  it  will  be  when  it  is  all  over  with.  You  will 
never  live  with  him — he  is  too  old  for  you,  too  fickle,  too  in- 
sincere. He  will  not  care  for  you  after  a  little  while,  and  then 
there  you  will  be,  unmarried,  possibly  with  a  child  on  your  hands, 
a  social  outcast !  Where  will  you  go  ?" 

"Mama,"  said  Suzanne  calmly,  her  lips  parted  in  a  rosy,  baby 
way,  "I  have  thought  of  all  this.  I  see  how  it  is.  But  I  think 
you  and  everybody  else  make  too  much  ado  about  these  things. 
You  think  of  everything  that  could  happen,  but  it  doesn't  all 
happen  that  way.  People  do  these  things,  I'm  sure,  and  nothing 
much  is  thought  of  it." 

"Yes,  in  books,"  put  in  Mrs.  Dale.  "I  know  where  you  get 
all  this  from.  It's  your  reading." 

"Anyhow,  I'm  going  to.  I  have  made  up  my  mind,"  added 
Suzanne.  "I  have  decided  that  by  September  fifteenth  I  will  go 
to  Mr.  Witla,  and  you  might  just  as  well  make  up  your  mind  to 
it  now."  This  was  August  tenth. 

"Suzanne,"  said  her  mother,  staring  at  her,  "I  never  imag- 
ined you  could  talk  in  this  way  to  me.  You  will  do  nothing  of 
the  kind.  How  can  you  be  so  hard?  I  did  not  know  that  you 
had  such  a  terrible  will  in  you.  Doesn't  anything  I  have  said 
about  Adele  and  Ninette  or  Kinroy  appeal  to  you?  Have  you 
no  heart  in  you  ?  Why  don't  you  wait,  as  Dr.  Woolley  suggests, 
six  months  or  a  year?  Why  do  you  talk  about  jumping  into  this 
without  giving  yourself  time  to  think?  It  is  such  a  wild,  rash 
experiment.  You  haven't  thought  anything  about  it,  you  haven't 
had  time." 

"Oh,  yes,  I  have,  mama!"  replied  Suzanne.  "I've  thought  a 
great  deal  about  it.  I'm  fully  convinced.  I  want  to  do  it  then 
because  I  told  Eugene  that  I  would  not  keep  him  waiting  long; 
and  I  won't.  I  want  to  go  to  him.  That  will  make  a  clear 
two  months  since  we  first  talked  of  this." 

Mrs.  Dale  winced.  She  had  no  idea  of  yielding  to  her  daugh- 
ter, or  letting  her  do  this,  but  this  definite  conclusion  as  to  the 


THE   "GENIUS"  629 

time  brought  matters  finally  to  a  head.  Her  daughter  was  out 
of  her  mind,  that  was  all.  It  gave  her  not  any  too  much  time 
to  turn  round  in.  She  must  get  Suzanne  out  of  the  city — out 
of  the  country,  if  possible,  or  lock  her  up,  and  she  must  do  it 
without  antagonizing  her  too  much. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

MRS.  DALE'S  next  step  in  this  struggle  was  to  tell  Kinroy, 
who  wanted,  of  course,  in  a  fit  of  boyish  chivalry,  to  go 
immediately  and  kill  Eugene.  This  was  prevented  by  Mrs.  Dale, 
who  had  more  control  over  him  than  she  had  over  Suzanne,  point- 
ing out  to  him  what  a  terrifically  destructive  scandal  would  ensue 
and  urging  subtlety  and  patience.  Kinroy  had  a  sincere  affec- 
tion for  his  sisters,  particularly  Suzanne  and  Adele,  and  he 
wanted  to  protect  all  of  them.  He  decided  in  a  pompous,  ultra 
chivalrous  spirit  that  he  must  help  his  mother  plan,  and  together 
they  talked  of  chloroforming  her  some  night,  of  carrying  her 
thus,  as  a  sick  girl,  in  a  private  car  to  Maine  or  the  Adiron- 
dacks  or  somewhere  in  Canada. 

It  would  be  useless  to  follow  all  these  strategic  details  in 
their  order.  There  were,  after  the  five  days  agreed  upon  by 
Suzanne,  attempted  phone  messages  by  Eugene,  which  were  frus- 
trated by  Kinroy,  who  was  now  fulfilling  the  role  of  private 
detective.  Suzanne  resolved  to  have  Eugene  summoned  to  the 
house  for  a  discussion,  but  to  this  her  mother  objected.  She  felt 
that  additional  meetings  would  simply  strengthen  their  bond  of 
union.  Kinroy  wrote  to  Eugene  of  his  own  accord  that  he  knew 
all,  and  that  if  he  attempted  to  come  near  the  place  he  would 
kill  him  at  sight.  Suzanne,  finding  herself  blocked  and  detained 
by  her  mother,  wrote  Eugene  a  letter  which  Elizabeth,  her  maid, 
secretly  conveyed  to  the  mail  for  her,  telling  him  how  things 
stood.  Her  mother  had  told  Dr.  Woolley  and  Kinroy.  She  had 
decided  that  September  fifteenth  was  the  time  she  would  leave 
home,  unless  their  companionship  was  quietly  sanctioned.  Kin- 
roy had  threatened  to  kill  him  to  her,  but  she  did  not  think  he 
had  anything  to  fear.  Kinroy  was  just  excited.  Her  mother 
wanted  her  to  go  to  Europe  for  six  months  and  think  it  over,  but 
this  she  would  not  do.  She  was  not  going  to  leave  the  city, 
and  he  need  not  fear,  if  he  did  not  hear  anything  for  a  few  days 
at  a  time,  that  anything  was  wrong  with  her.  They  must  wait 
until  the  storm  subsided  a  little.  "I  shall  be  here,  but  perhaps 
it  is  best  for  you  not  to  try  to  see  me  just  now.  When  the  time 
comes,  I  will  come  to  you,  and  if  I  get  a  chance,  I  will  see  you 
before." 

Eugene  was  both  pained  and  surprised  at  the  turn  things  had 
taken,  but  still  encouraged  to  hope  for  the  best  by  the  attitude 

630 


THE    "GENIUS"  631 

Suzanne  took  toward  it  all.  Her  courage  strengthened  him. 
She  was  calm,  so  purposeful !  What  a  treasure  she  was ! 

So  began  a  series  of  daily  love  notes  for  a  few  days,  until 
Suzanne  advised  him  to  cease.  There  were  constant  arguments 
between  her,  her  mother  and  Kinroy.  Because  she  was  being  so 
obviously  frustrated,  she  began  to  grow  bitter  and  hard,  and  short 
contradictory  phrases  passed  between  her  and  her  mother,  princi- 
pally originating  in  Suzanne. 

"No,  no,  no!"  was  her  constantly  reiterated  statement.  "I 
won't  do  it!  What  of  it?  It's  silly!  Let  me  alone!  I  won't 
talk!"  So  it  went. 

Mrs.  Dale  was  planning  hourly  how  to  abduct  her.  Chloro- 
forming and  secret  removal  after  the  fashion  she  had  in  her  mind 
was  not  so  easy  of  accomplishment.  It  was  such  a  desperate  thing 
to  do  to  Suzanne.  She  was  afraid  she  might  die  under  its  influ- 
ence. It  could  not  be  administered  without  a  doctor.  The  serv- 
ants would  think  it  strange.  She  fancied  there  were  whispered 
suspicions  already.  Finally  she  thought  of  pretending  to  agree 
with  Suzanne,  removing  all  barriers,  and  asking  her  to  come  to 
Albany  to  confer  with  her  guardian,  or  rather  the  legal  represen- 
tative of  the  Marquardt  Trust  Company,  which  held  her  share 
of  her  father  the  late  Westfield  Dale's  estate  in  trust  for  her, 
in  regard  to  some  property  in  western  New  York,  which  be- 
longed to  her.  Mrs.  Dale  decided  to  pretend  to  be  obliged  to 
go  to  Albany  in  order  to  have  Suzanne  sign  a  waiver  of  right  to 
any  share  in  her  mother's  private  estate,  after  which,  supposedly, 
she  would  give  Suzanne  her  freedom,  having  also  disinherited 
her  in  her  will.  Suzanne,  according  to  this  scheme,  was  then  to 
come  back  to  New  York  and  go  her  way  and  her  mother  was 
not  to  see  her  any  more. 

To  make  this  more  effective,  Kinroy  was  sent  to  tell  her  of 
her  mother's  plan  and  beg  her  for  her  own  and  her  family's  sake 
not  to  let  the  final  separation  come  about.  Mrs.  Dale  changed 
her  manner.  Kinroy  acted  his  part  so  effectively  that  what  with 
her  mother's  resigned  look  and  indifferent  method  of  address, 
Suzanne  was  partly  deceived.  She  imagined  her  mother  had  ex- 
perienced a  complete  change  of  heart  and  might  be  going  to  do 
what  Kinroy  said. 

"No,"  she  replied  to  Kinroy's  pleadings,  "I  don't  care  whether 
she  cuts  me  off.  I'll  be  very  glad  to  sign  the  papers.  If  she 
wants  me  to  go  away,  I'll  go.  I  think  she  has  acted  very  fool- 
ishly through  all  this,  and  so  have  you." 

"I  wish  you  wouldn't  let  her  do  that,"  observed  Kinroy,  who 


632  THE    "GENIUS" 

was  rather  exulting  over  the  satisfactory  manner  in  which  this 
bait  was  being  swallowed.  "Mama  is  broken  hearted.  She 
wants  you  to  stay  here,  to  wait  six  months  or  a  year  before  you 
do  anything  at  all,  but  if  you  won't,  she's  going  to  ask  you  to  do 
this.  I've  tried  to  persuade  her  not  to.  I'd  hate  like  anything 
to  see  you  go.  Won't  you  change  your  mind?" 

"I  told  you  I  wouldn't,  Kinroy.    Don't  ask  me." 

Kinroy  went  back  to  his  mother  and  reported  that  Suzanne 
was  stubborn  as  ever,  but  that  the  trick  would  in  all  probability 
work.  She  would  go  aboard  the  train  thinking  she  was  going 
to  Albany.  Once  aboard,  inside  a  closed  car,  she  would  scarcely 
suspect  until  the  next  morning,  and  then  they  would  be  far  in 
the  Adirondack  Mountains. 

The  scheme  worked  in  part.  Her  mother,  as  had  Kinroy, 
went  through  this  prearranged  scene  as  well  as  though  she  were 
on  the  stage.  Suzanne  fancied  she  saw  her  freedom  near  at 
hand.  Only  a  travelling  bag  was  packed,  and  Suzanne  went 
willingly  enough  into  the  auto  and  the  train,  only  stipulating 
one  thing — that  she  be  allowed  to  call  up  Eugene  and  explain. 
Both  Kinroy  and  her  mother  objected,  but,  when  finally  she 
refused  flatly  to  go  without,  they  acceded.  She  called  him  up 
at  the  office — it  was  four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  and  they  were 
leaving  at  five-thirty — and  told  him.  He  fancied  at  once  it  was 
a  ruse,  and  told  her  so,  but  she  thought  not.  Mrs.  Dale  had 
never  lied  to  her  before,  neither  had  her  brother.  Their  words 
were  as  bonds. 

"Eugene  says  this  is  a  trap,  mama,"  said  Suzanne,  turning 
from  the  phone  to  her  mother,  who  was  near  by.  "Is  it?" 

"You  know  it  isn't,"  replied  her  mother,  lying  unblushingly. 

"If  it  is,  it  will  come  to  nothing,"  she  replied,  and  Eugene 
heard  her.  He  was  strengthened  into  acquiescence  by  the  tone 
of  her  voice.  Surely  she  was  a  wonderful  girl — a  master  of  men 
and  women  in  her  way. 

"Very  well,  if  you  think  it's  all  right,"  said  Eugene;  "but  I'll 
be  very  lonely.  I've  been  so  already.  I  shall  be  more  so,  Flower 
Face,  unless  I  see  you  soon.  Oh,  if  the  time  were  only  up!" 

"It  will  be,  Eugene,"  she  replied,  "in  a  very  few  days  now. 
"I'll  be  back  Thursday,  and  then  you  can  come  down  and  see 
me." 

"Thursday  afternoon  ?" 

"Yes.    We're  to  be  back  Thursday  morning." 

She  finally  hung  up  the  receiver  and  they  entered  the  automo- 
bile and  an  hour  later  the  train. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

IT  was  a  Montreal,  Ottawa  and  Quebec  express,  and  it  ran 
without  stopping  to  Albany.  By  the  time  it  was  nearing  the 
latter  place  Suzanne  was  going  to  bed — and  because  it  was  a 
private  car — Mrs.  Dale  explained  that  the  president  of  the  road 
had  lent  it  to  her — no  announcement  of  its  arrival,  which  would 
have  aroused  Suzanne,  was  made  by  the  porter.  When  it 
stopped  there  shortly  after  ten  o'clock  it  was  the  last  car  at 
the  south  end  of  the  train,  and  you  could  hear  voices  calling,  but 
just  what  it  was  was  not  possible  to  say.  Suzanne,  who  had  al- 
ready gone  to  bed,  fancied  it  might  be  Poughkeepsie  or  some 
wayside  station.  Her  mother's  statement  was  that  since  they 
arrived  so  late,  the  car  would  be  switched  to  a  siding,  and  they 
would  stay  aboard  until  morning.  Nevertheless,  she  and  Kinroy 
were  alert  to  prevent  any  untoward  demonstration  or  decision 
on  Suzanne's  part,  and  so,  as  the  train  went  on,  she  slept  soundly 
until  Burlington  in  the  far  northern  part  of  Vermont  was 
reached  the  next  morning.  When  she  awoke  and  saw  that  the 
train  was  still  speeding  on,  she  wondered  vaguely  but  not  clearly 
what  it  could  mean.  There  were  mountains  about,  or  rather  tall, 
pine-covered  hills,  mountain  streams  were  passed  on  high  trestles 
and  sections  of  burned  woodlands  were  passed  where  forest  fires 
had  left  lonely,  sad  charred  stretches  of  tree  trunks  towering 
high  in  the  air.  Suddenly  it  occurred  to  Suzanne  that  this  was 
peculiar,  and  she  came  out  of  the  bath  to  ask  why. 

"Where  are  we,  mama?"  she  asked.  Mrs.  Dale  was 
leaning  back  in  a  comfortable  willow  chair  reading,  or  pretending 
to  read  a  book.  Kinroy  was  out  on  the  observation  platform  for 
a  moment.  He  came  back  though  shortly,  for  he  was  nervous  as 
to  what  Suzanne  would  do  when  she  discovered  her  whereabouts. 
A  hamper  of  food  had  been  put  aboard  the  night  before,  unknown 
to  Suzanne,  and  Mrs.  Dale  was  going  shortly  to  serve  breakfast. 
She  had  not  risked  a  maid  on  this  journey. 

"I  don't  know,"  replied  her  mother  indifferently,  looking  out 
at  a  stretch  of  burnt  woods. 

"I  thought  we  were  to  be  in  Albany  a  little  after  midnight  ?" 
said  Suzanne. 

"So  we  were,"  replied  Mrs.  Dale,  preparing  to  confess.  Kin- 
roy came  back  into  the  car. 

"Well,  then,"  said  Suzanne,  pausing,  looking  first  out  of  the 

633 


634  THE    "GENIUS" 

windows  and  then  fixedly  at  her  mother.  It  came  to  her  as  she 
saw  the  unsettled,  somewhat  nervous  expression  in  her  mother's 
face  and  eyes  and  in  Kinroy's  that  this  was  a  trick  and  that  she 
was  being  taken  somewhere — where? — against  her  will. 

"This  is  a  trick,  mama,"  she  said  to  her  mother  grandly. 
"You  have  lied  to  me — you  and  Kinroy.  We  are  not  going  to 
Albany  at  all.  Where  are  we  going?" 

"I  don't  want  to  tell  you  now,  Suzanne,"  replied  Mrs.  Dale 
quietly.  "Have  your  bath  and  we'll  talk  about  it  afterwards.  It 
doesn't  matter.  We're  going  up  into  Canada,  if  you  want  to 
know.  We  are  nearly  there  now.  You'll  know  fast  enough 
when  we  get  there." 

"Mama,"  replied  Suzanne,  "this  is  a  despicable  trick!  You 
are  going  to  be  sorry  for  this.  You  have  lied  to  me — you  and 
Kinroy.  I  see  it  now.  I  might  have  known,  but  I  didn't  be- 
lieve you  would  lie  to  me,  mama.  I  can't  do  anything  just  now, 
I  see  that  very  plainly.  But  when  the  time  comes,  you  are  going 
to  be  sorry.  You  can't  control  me  this  way.  You  ought  to 
know  better.  You  yourself  are  going  to  take  me  back  to  New 
York."  And  she  fixed  her  mother  with  a  steady  look  which  be- 
tokened a  mastership  which  her  mother  felt  nervously  and 
wearily  she  might  eventually  be  compelled  to  acknowledge. 

"Now,  Suzanne,  what's  the  use  of  talking  that  way?"  pleaded 
Kinroy.  "Mama  is  almost  crazy,  as  it  is.  She  couldn't  think 
of  any  other  way  or  thing  to  do." 

"You  hush,  Kinroy,"  replied  Suzanne.  "I  don't  care  to  talk 
to  you.  You  have  lied  to  me,  and  that  is  more  than  I  ever  did 
to  you.  Mama,  I  am  astonished  at  you,"  she  returned  to  her 
mother.  "My  mother  lying  to  me!  Very  well,  mama.  You 
have  things  in  your  hands  today.  I  will  have  them  in  mine  later. 
You  have  taken  just  the  wrong  course.  Now  you  wait  and  see." 

Mrs.  Dale  winced  and  quailed.  This  girl  was  the  most  un- 
terrified,  determined  fighter  she  had  ever  known.  She  wondered 
where  she  got  her  courage — from  her  late  husband,  probably. 
She  could  actually  feel  the  quietness,  grit,  lack  of  fear,  which  had 
grown  up  in  her  during  the  last  few  weeks  under  the  provoca- 
tion which  antagonism  had  provided.  "Please  don't  talk  that 
way,  Suzanne,"  she  pleaded.  "I  have  done  it  all  for  your  own 
good.  You  know  I  have.  Why  will  you  torture  me?  You 
know  I  won't  give  you  up  to  that  man.  I  won't.  I'll  move 
heaven  and  earth  first.  I'll  die  in  this  struggle,  but  I  won't  give 
you  up." 

"Then  you'll  die,  mama,  for  I'm  going  to  do  what  I  said. 
You  can  take  me  to  where  this  car  stops,  but  you  can't  take  me 


THE   "GENIUS"  635 

out  of  it.  I'm  going  back  to  New  York.  Now,  a  lot  you  have 
accomplished,  haven't  you?" 

"Suzanne,  I  am  convinced  almost  that  you  are  out  of  your 
mind.  You  have  almost  driven  me  out  of  mine,  but  I  am  still 
sane  enough  to  see  what  is  right." 

"Mama,  I  don't  propose  to  talk  to  you  any  more,  or  to  Kin- 
roy.  You  can  take  me  back  to  New  York,  or  you  can  leave  me, 
but  you  will  not  get  me  out  of  this  car.  I  am  done  with  listen- 
ing to  nonsense  and  pretences.  You  have  lied  to  me  once.  You 
will  not  get  a  chance  to  do  it  again." 

"I  don't  care,  Suzanne,"  replied  her  mother,  as  the  train  sped 
swiftly  along.  "You  have  forced  me  to  do  this.  It  is  your  own 
attitude  that  is  causing  all  the  trouble.  If  you  would  be  reason- 
able and  take  some  time  to  think  this  all  over,  you  would  not  be 
where  you  are  now.  I  won't  let  you  do  this  thing  that  you  want 
to  do.  You  can  stay  in  the  car  if  you  wish,  but  you  cannot  be 
taken  back  to  New  York  without  money.  I  will  speak  to  the 
station  agent  about  that." 

Suzanne  thought  of  this.  She  had  no  money,  no  clothes, 
other  than  those  she  had  on.  She  was  in  a  strange  country  and 
not  so  very  used  to  travelling  alone.  She  had  really  gone  to 
very  few  places  in  times  past  by  herself.  It  took  the  edge  off 
her  determination  to  resist,  but  she  was  not  conquered  by  any 
means. 

"How  are  you  going  to  get  back?"  asked  her  mother,  after  a 
time,  when  Suzanne  paid  no  attention  to  her.  "You  have  no 
money.  Surely,  Suzanne,  you  are  not  going  to  make  a  scene? 
I  only  want  you  to  come  up  here  for  a  few  weeks  so  that  you 
will  have  time  to  think  away  from  that  man.  I  don't  want  you 
to  go  to  him  on  September  the  fifteenth.  I  just  won't  let  you 
do  that.  Why  won't  you  be  reasonable  ?  You  can  have  a  pleas- 
ant time  up  here.  You  like  to  ride.  You  are  welcome  to  do 
that.  I  will  ride  with  you.  You  can  invite  some  of  your  friends 
up  here,  if  you  choose.  I  will  send  for  your  clothes.  Only  stay 
here  a  while  and  think  over  what  you  are  going  to  do." 

Suzanne  refused  to  talk.  She  was  thinking  what  she  could  do. 
Eugene  was  back  in  New  York.  He  would  expect  her  Thursday. 

"Yes,  Suzanne,"  put  in  Kinroy.  "Why  not  take  ma's  advice? 
She's  trying  to  do  the  best  thing  by  you.  This  is  a  terrible  thing 
you  are  trying  to  do.  Why  not  listen  to  common  sense  and 
stay  up  here  three  or  four  months?" 

"Don't  talk  like  a  parrot,  Kinroy!  I'm  hearing  all  this  from 
mama-" 

When  her   mother   reproached   her,   she  said:      "Oh,   hush, 


636  THE    '"GENIUS" 

mama,  I  don't  care  to  hear  anything  more.  I  won't  do  any- 
thing of  the  sort.  You  lied  to  me.  You  said  you  were  going  to 
Albany.  You  brought  me  out  here  under  a  pretence.  Now  you 
can  take  me  back.  I  won't  go  to  any  lodge.  I  won't  go  any- 
where, except  to  New  York.  You  might  just  as  well  not  argue 
with  me." 

The  train  rolled  on.  Breakfast  was  served.  The  private  car 
was  switched  to  the  tracks  of  the  Canadian  Pacific  at  Montreal. 
Her  mother's  pleas  continued.  Suzanne  refused  to  eat.  She  sat 
and  looked  out  of  the  window,  meditating  over  this  strange  de- 
nouement. Where  was  Eugene?  What  was  he  doing?  What 
would  he  think  when  she  did  not  come  back?  She  was  not  en- 
raged at  her  mother.  She  was  merely  contemptuous  of  her. 
This  trick  irritated  and  disgusted  her.  She  was  not  thinking 
of  Eugene  in  any  wild  way,  but  merely  that  she  would  get  back 
to  him.  She  conceived  of  him  much  as  she  did  of  herself — 
though  her  conception  of  her  real  self  was  still  vague — as  strong, 
patient,  resourceful,  able  to  live  without  her  a  little  while  if  he 
had  to.  She  was  eager  to  see  him,  but  really  more  eager  that  he 
should  see  her  if  he  wanted  to.  What  a  creature  he  must  take 
her  mother  to  be! 

By  noon  they  had  reached  Juinata,  by  two  o'clock  they  were 
fifty  miles  west  of  Quebec.  At  first,  Suzanne  thought  she 
would  not  eat  at  all  to  spite  her  mother.  Later  she  reasoned 
that  that  was  silly  and  ate.  She  made  it  exceedingly  unpleasant 
for  them  by  her  manner,  and  they  realized  that  by  bringing  her 
away  from  New  York  they  had  merely  transferred  their  trou- 
bles. Her  spirit  was  not  broken  as  yet.  It  filled  the  car  with 
a  disturbing  vibration. 

"Suzanne,"  questioned  her  mother  at  one  point,  "won't  you 
talk  to  me?  Won't  you  see  I'm  trying  to  do  this  for  your  own 
good  ?  I  want  to  give  you  time  to  think.  I  really  don't  want  to 
coerce  )^ou,  but  you  must  see." 

Suzanne  merely  stared  out  of  the  window  at  the  green  fields 
speeding  by. 

"Suzanne!  Don't  you  see  this  will  never  do?  Can't  you  see 
how  terrible  it  all  is?" 

"Mama,  I  want  you  to  let  me  alone.  You  have  done  what 
you  thought  was  the  right  thing  to  do.  Now  let  me  alone.  You 
lied  to  me,  mama.  I  don't  want  to  talk  to  you.  I  want  you 
to  take  me  back  to  New  York.  You  have  nothing  else  to  do. 
Don't  try  to  explain.  You  haven't  any  explanation." 

Mrs.  Dale's  spirit  fairly  raged,  but  it  was  impotent  in  the 
presence  of  this  her  daughter.  She  could  do  nothing. 


THE    ''GENIUS  "  637 

Still  more  hours,  and  at  one  small  town  Suzanne  decided  to 
get  off,  but  both  Mrs.  Dale  and  Kinroy  offered  actual  physical 
opposition.  They  felt  intensely  silly  and  ashamed,  though,  for 
they  could  not  break  the  spirit  of  the  girl.  She  ignored  their 
minds — their  mental  attitude  in  the  most  contemptuous  way. 
Mrs.  Dale  cried.  Then  her  face  hardened.  Then  she  pleaded. 
Her  daughter  merely  looked  loftily  away. 

At  Three  Rivers  Suzanne  stayed  in  the  car  and  refused  to 
move.  Mrs.  Dale  pleaded,  threatened  to  call  aid,  stated  that  she 
would  charge  her  with  insanity.  It  was  all  without  avail.  The 
car  was  uncoupled  after  the  conductor  had  asked  Mrs.  Dale  if 
she  did  not  intend  to  leave  it.  She  was  beside  herself,  frantic 
with  rage,  shame,  baffled  opposition. 

"I  think  you  are  terrible !"  she  exclaimed  to  Suzanne.  "You 
are  a  little  demon.  We  will  live  in  this  car,  then.  We  will 
see." 

She  knew  that  this  could  not  be,  for  the  car  was  only  leased 
for  the  outward  trip  and  had  to  be  returned  the  next  day. 

The  car  was  pushed  on  to  a  siding. 

"I  beg  of  you,  Suzanne.  Please  don't  make  a  mockery  of  us. 
This  is  terrible.  What  will  people  think?" 

"I  don't  care  what  they  think,"  said  Suzanne. 

"But  you  can't  stay  here." 

"Oh,  yes,  lean!" 

"Come,  get  off,  please  do.  We  won't  stay  up  here  indefi- 
nitely. I'll  take  you  back.  Promise  me  to  stay  a  month  and 
I'll  give  you  my  solemn  word  I'll  take  you  back  at  the  end  of 
that  time.  I'm  getting  sick  of  this.  I  can't  stand  it.  Do  what 
you  like  after  that.  Only  stay  a  month  now." 

"No,  mama,"  replied  Suzanne.  "No,  you  won't.  You  lied 
to  me.  You're  lying  to  me  now,  just  as  you  did  before." 

"I  swear  to  you  I'm  not.  I  lied  that  once,  but  I  was  frantic. 
Oh,  Suzanne,  please,  please.  Be  reasonable.  Have  some  con- 
sideration. I  will  take  you  back,  but  wait  for  some  clothes  to 
arrive.  We  can't  go  this  way." 

She  sent  Kinroy  for  the  station  master,  to  whom  was  explained 
the  need  of  a  carriage  to  take  them  to  Mont  Cecile  and  also  for 
a  doctor — this  was  Mrs.  Dale's  latest  thought — to  whom  she 
proposed  to  accuse  Suzanne  of  insanity.  Help  to  remove  her 
was  to  be  called.  She  told  this  to  Suzanne,  who  simply  glared 
at  her. 

"Get  the  doctor,  mama,"  she  said.  "We  will  see  if  I  have 
to  go  that  way.  But  you  will  rue  every  step  of  this.  You  will 
be  thoroughly  sorry  for  every  silly  step  you  have  taken." 


638  THE    "GENIUS" 

When  the  carriage  arrived,  Suzanne  refused  to  get  out.  The 
country  driver,  a  French  habitant,  reported  its  presence  at  the 
car.  Kinroy  tried  to  soothe  his  sister  by  saying  that  he  would 
help  straighten  matters  out  if  she  would  only  go  peacefully. 

"I'll  tell  you,  Susie,  if  it  isn't  all  arranged  to  suit  you  within 
a  month,  and  you  still  want  to  go  back,  I'll  send  you  the  money. 
I  have  to  go  back  tomorrow,  or  next  day  for  ma,  but  I'll  give 
you  my  word.  In  fact,  I'll  persuade  mother  to  bring  you  back 
in  two  weeks.  You  know  I  never  lied  to  you  before.  I  never 
will  again.  Please  come.  Let's  go  over  there.  We  can  be  com- 
fortable, anyhow." 

Mrs.  Dale  had  leased  the  lodge  from  the  Cathcarts  by  phone. 
It  was  all  furnished — ready  to  live  in — even  wood  fires  prepared 
for  lighting  in  the  fireplaces.  It  had  hot  and  cold  water  con- 
trolled by  a  hot-water  furnace  system ;  acetylene  gas,  a  supply  of 
staples  in  the  kitchen.  The  service  to  take  care  of  it  was  to  be 
called  together  by  the  caretaker,  who  could  be  reached  by  phone 
from  the  depot.  Mrs.  Dale  had  already  communicated  with 
him  by  the  time  the  carriage  arrived.  The  roads  were  so  poor 
that  the  use  of  an  automobile  was  impossible.  The  station  agent, 
seeing  a  fat  fee  in  sight,  was  most  obliging. 

Suzanne  listened  to  Kinroy,  but  she  did  not  believe  him.  She 
did  not  believe  anyone  now,  save  Eugene,  and  he  was  nowhere 
near  to  advise  her.  Still,  since  she  was  without  money  and  they 
were  threatening  to  call  a  doctor,  she  thought  it  might  be  best 
perhaps  to  go  peacefully.  Her  mother  was  most  distracted.  Her 
face  was  white  and  thin  and  nervous,  and  Kinroy  was  apparently 
strained  to  the  breaking  point. 

"Do  you  promise  me  faithfully,"  she  asked  her  mother,  who 
had  begun  her  pleadings  anew,  corroborating  Kinroy  in  a  way, 
"that  you  will  take  me  back  to  New  York  in  two  weeks  if  I 
promise  to  stay  that  long?  This  was  still  within  the  date  in 
which  she  had  promised  to  go  to  Witla,  and  as  long  as  she  got 
back  by  that  time,  she  really  did  not  care,  provided  she  could 
write  to  her  lover.  It  was  a  silly  arbitrary  thing  for  her  mother 
to  have  done,  but  it  could  be  endured.  Her  mother,  seeing  no 
reasonable  way  to  obtain  peace,  promised.  If  she  could  only  keep 
her  there  two  weeks  quietly,  perhaps  that  would  help.  Suzanne 
could  think  here  under  different  conditions.  New  York  was  so 
exciting.  Out  at  this  lodge  all  would  be  still.  There  was  more 
argument,  and,  finally,  Suzanne  agreed  to  enter  the  hack,  and 
they  drove  over  toward  Mont  Cecile  and  the  Cathcarts'  Lodge, 
now  vacant  and  lonely,  which  was  known  as  "While-a-Way." 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

THE  Cathcart  Lodge,  a  long,  two-story  affair,  half-way 
up  a  fine  covered  mountain  slope,  was  one  of  those 
summer  conveniences  of  the  rich,  situated  just  near  enough  to 
the  primeval  wilds  to  give  one  a  sense  of  the  unexplored  and 
dangerous  in  raw  nature,  and  yet  near  enough  to  the  comforts  of 
civilization,  as  represented  by  the  cities  of  Quebec  and  Montreal, 
to  make  one  feel  secure  in  the  possession  of  those  material  joys, 
otherwise  so  easily  interrupted.  It  was  full  of  great  rooms  taste- 
fully furnished  with  simple  summery  things — willow  chairs,  box 
window-seats,  structural  book  shelves,  great  open  fireplaces,  sur- 
mounted by  handsome  mantels,  outward  swinging  leaded  case- 
ments, settees,  pillow-strewn  rustic  couches,  great  fur  rugs  and 
robes  and  things  of  that  character.  The  walls  were  ornamented 
with  trophies  of  the  chase — antlers,  raw  fox  skins,  mounted 
loons  and  eagles,  skins  of  bears  and  other  animals.  This  year 
the  Cathcarts  were  elsewhere,  and  the  lodge  was  to  be  had  by  a 
woman  of  Mrs.  Dale's  standing  for  the  asking. 

When  they  reached  While-a-Way,  the  caretaker,  Pierre,  an 
old  habitant  of  musty  log-hut  origin,  who  spoke  broken  English* 
and  was  dressed  in  earth-brown  khaki  over  Heaven  knows  what 
combination  of  clothes  beneath,  had  lighted  the  fires  and  was 
bestirring  himself  about  warming  the  house  generally  with  the 
furnaces.  His  wife,  a  small,  broad-skirted,  solid-bodied  woman, 
was  in  the  kitchen  preparing  something  to  eat.  There  was  plenty 
of  meat  to  be  had  from  the  larder  of  the  habitant  himself,  to 
say  nothing  of  flour,  butter,  and  the  like.  A  girl  to  serve  was 
called  from  the  family  of  a  neighboring  trapper.  She  had  worked 
in  the  lodge  as  maid  to  the  Cathcarts.  They  settled  down  to 
make  themselves  comfortable,  but  the  old  discussion  continued. 
There  was  no  cessation  to  it,  and  through  it  all,  actually,  Su- 
zanne was  having  her  way. 

Meanwhile,  Eugene  back  in  New  York  was  expecting  word 
from  Suzanne  on  Thursday,  and  none  came.  He  called  up  the 
house  only  to  learn  that  Mrs.  Dale  was  out  of  the  city  and  was 
not  expected  back  soon.  Friday  came,  and  no  word;  and  Sat- 
urday. He  tried  a  registered  letter  "for  personal  delivery  only, 
return  signature  demanded/'  but  it  came  back  marked  "not 
there."  Then  he  realized  that  his  suspicions  were  correct  and 
that  Suzanne  had  fallen  into  a  trap.  He  grew  gloomy,  fearful, 

639 


640  THE   "  GENIUS'1 

impatient  and  nervous  by  turn,  and  all  at  the  same  time.  He 
drummed  on  his  desk  at  the  office,  tried  almost  in  vain  to  fix  his 
mind  on  the  scores  of  details  which  were  ever  before  him,  wan- 
dered aimlessly  about  the  streets  at  times,  thinking.  He  was 
asked  for  his  opinion  on  art  plans,  and  books,  and  advertising 
and  circulation  propositions,  but  he  could  not  fix  his  mind  closely 
on  what  was  being  said. 

"The  chief  has  certainly  got  something  on  his  mind  which  is 
troubling  him  these  days,"  said  Carter  Hayes,  the  advertising 
man,  to  the  circulation  head.  "He's  not  himself.  I  don't  be- 
lieve he  hears  what  I'm  telling  him." 

"I've  noticed  that,"  replied  the  latter.  They  were  in  the 
reception  room  outside  Eugene's  door,  and  strolled  arm  in  arm 
down  the  richly  carpeted  hall  to  the  elevator.  "There's  cer- 
tainly something  wrong.  He  ought  to  take  a  rest.  He's  trying 
to  do  too  much." 

Hayes  did  not  believe  Eugene  was  trying  to  do  too  much.  In 
the  last  four  or  five  months  it  had  been  almost  impossible  to  get 
near  him.  He  came  down  at  ten  or  ten-thirty  in  the  morning, 
left  frequently  at  two  and  three,  had  lunch  engagements  which 
had  nothing  to  do  writh  office  work,  and  at  night  went  into  the 
social  world  to  dinner  or  elsewhere,  where  he  could  not  be  found. 
Colfax  had  sent  for  him  on  a  number  of  occasions  when  he  was 
not  present,  and  on  several  other  occasions,  when  he  had  called 
on  his  floor  and  at  his  office,  Eugene  was  out.  It  did  not  strike 
him  as  anything  to  complain  of — Eugene  had  a  right  to  be  about 
— but  as  inadvisable,  in  the  managing  publisher's  own  interest. 
He  knew  that  he  had  a  vast  number  of  things  to  take  care  of.  It 
would  take  an  exceptionally  efficient  man  to  manage  them  and 
not  give  all  his  time  to  them.  He  would  not  have  thought  this 
if  Eugene  had  been  a  partner  with  himself,  as  were  other  men 
in  other  ventures  in  which  he  was  interested,  but  not  being  so, 
he  could  not  help  viewing  him  as  an  employee,  one  who  ought 
to  give  all  his  time  to  his  work. 

White  never  asked  anything  much  save  the  privilege  of  work- 
ing, and  was  always  about  the  place,  alert,  earnest  at  his  par- 
ticular duties,  not  haughty,  but  calm  and  absolutely  efficient  in 
every  way.  He  was  never  weary  of  consulting  with  Colfax, 
whereas  Eugene  was  indifferent,  not  at  all  desirous  of  running  to 
him  with  every  little  proposition,  but  preferring  to  act  on  his 
own  initiative,  and  carrying  himself  constantly  with  very  much 
of  an  air. 

In  other  ways  there  were  other  things  which  were  and  had 
been  militating  against  him.  By  degrees  it  had  come  to  be  ru- 


THE   "GENIUS"  641 

mored  about  the  office  that  Eugene  was  interested  in  the  Blue 
Sea  or  Sea  Island  Development  and  Construction  Company,  of 
which  there  was  a  good  deal  of  talk  about  the  city,  particularly 
in  financial  and  social  circles.  Colfax  had  heard  of  the  corpora- 
tion. He  had  been  interested  in  the  scheme  because  it  promised 
so  much  in  the  way  of  luxury.  Not  much  of  the  panoramic 
whole  so  beautifully  depicted  in  the  colored  insets  of  a  thirty- 
two-page  literary  prospectus  fathered  by  Eugene  was  as  yet  ac- 
complished, but  there  was  enough  to  indicate  that  it  was  going 
to  be  a  great  thing.  Already  somewhat  over  a  mile  and  a  quar- 
ter of  the  great  sea  walk  and  wall  were  in  place.  A  dining  and 
dancing  pavilion  had  been  built,  and  one  of  the  smaller  hotels — 
all  in  accordance  with  the  original  architectural  scheme.  There 
were  a  number  of  houses — something  like  twenty  or  thirty — on 
plots  one  hundred  and  fifty  by  one  hundred  and  fifty  feet,  built 
in  the  most  ornate  fashion  on  ground  which  had  formerly  been 
wet  marsh  grown  high  with  grass.  Three  or  four  islands  had 
been  filled  in  and  the  club  house  of  a  minor  yacht  club  had  been 
constructed,  but  still  the  Sea  Island  Development  Company  had 
a  long  way  to  go  before  even  a  third  of  its  total  perfection  would 
be  in  sight. 

Eugene  did  not  know  the  drift  of  the  company's  financial  af- 
fairs, except  in  a  general  way.  He  had  tried  to  keep  out  of  it 
so  far  as  public  notice  of  him  was  concerned,  though  he  was 
constantly  lunching  with  Winfield,  Willebrand,  and  others,  and 
endeavoring  to  direct  as  much  attention  to  the  wonders  ancT 
prospects  of  the  new  resort  as  was  possible  for  him  to  do.  It 
was  an  easy  thing  for  him  to  say  to  one  person  and  another  whom 
he  met  that  Blue  Sea  was  rapidly  becoming  the  most  perfect 
thing  in  the  way  of  a  summer  resort  that  he  had  ever  seen,  and 
this  did  good ;  so  did  the  comments  of  all  the  other  people  who 
were  interested  in  it,  but  it  did  not  make  it  anything  of  a  suc- 
cess as  yet.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  the  true  success  of  Blue  Sea 
depended  on  the  investment  of  much  more  than  the  original  ten 
millions  for  which  it  had  been  capitalized.  It  depended  on  a 
truly  solid  growth,  which  could  not  be  rapid. 

The  news  which  came  to  the  United  Magazines  Corporation 
and  eventually  to  Colfax  and  White  was  that  Eugene  was  heavily 
interested  in  this  venture,  that  he  was  secretary  or  held  some 
other  office  in  connection  with  it,  and  that  he  was  giving  a  great 
deal  of  his  time  to  its  development,  which  might  better  be  em- 
ployed in  furthering  the  interests  of  the  United  Magazines  Cor- 
poration. 

"What  do  you  think  of  that?"  asked  Colfax  of  White,  on 


642  THE   "GENIUS' 

hearing  the  news  one  morning.  It  had  come  through  the  head 
of  the  printing  department  under  White,  who  had  mentioned  it 
to  Colfax  in  White's  presence  by  the  latter's  directions. 

"It's  just  what  I've  been  telling  you  all  along,"  said  the  latter 
blandly.  "He  isn't  interested  in  this  business  any  more  than  he 
is  in  any  other.  He's  using  it  as  a  stepping-stone,  and  when  he's 
through  with  it,  good-bye.  Now  that's  all  right  from  his  point 
of  view.  Every  man  has  a  right  to  climb  up,  but  it  isn't  so  good 
from  yours.  You'd  be  better  off  if  you  had  a  man  who  wanted 
to  stay  here.  You'd  be  better  off  really  if  you  were  handling  it 
yourself.  You  may  not  want  to  do  that,  but  with  what  you 
know  now  you  can  get  someone  who  will  work  under  you  quite 
well.  That's  the  one  satisfactory  thing  about  it — you  really  can 
get  along  without  him  if  it  comes  right  down  to  it  now.  With 
a  good  man  in  there,  it  can  be  handled  from  your  office." 

It  was  about  this  time  that  the  most  ardent  phase  of  Eugene's 
love  affair  with  Suzanne  began.  All  through  the  spring  and 
summer  Eugene  had  been  busy  with  thoughts  of  Suzanne,  ways 
of  meeting  her,  pleasurable  rides  with  her,  thinking  of  things 
she  had  done  and  said.  As  a  rule  now,  his  thoughts  were  very 
far  from  the  interests  of  his  position,  and  in  the  main  it  bored 
him  greatly.  He  began  to  wish  earnestly  that  his  investment  in 
the  Sea  Island  Corporation  would  show  some  tangible  return  in 
the  way  of  interest,  so  that  he  could  have  means  to  turn  round 
with.  It  struck  him  after  Angela's  discovery  of  his  intrigue  with 
Suzanne  as  a  most  unfortunate  thing  that  he  had  tied  up  all  his 
means  in  this  Blue  Sea  investment.  If  it  had  been  fated  that 
he  was  to  go  on  living  with  Angela,  it  would  have  been  all 
right.  Then  he  could  have  waited  in  patience  and  thought  noth- 
ing of  it.  Now  it  simply  meant  that  if  he  wanted  to  realize  it, 
it  would  all  be  tied  up  in  the  courts,  or  most  likely  so,  for  An- 
gela could  sue  him;  and  at  any  rate  he  would  wish  to  make 
reasonable  provision  for  her,  and  that  would  require  legal  adjust- 
ment. Apart  from  this  investment,  he  had  nothing  now  save  his 
salary,  and  that  was  not  accumulating  fast  enough  to  do  him 
much  good  in  case  Mrs.  Dale  went  to  Colfax  soon,  and  the 
latter  broke  with  him.  He  wondered  if  Colfax  really  would 
break  with  him.  Would  he  ask  him  to  give  up  Suzanne,  or 
simply  force  him  to  resign?  He  had  noticed  that  for  some  time 
Colfax  had  not  been  as  cordial  to  and  as  enthusiastic  about  him 
as  he  had  formerly  been,  but  this  might  be  due  to  other  things 
besides  opposition.  Moreover,  it  was  natural  for  them  to  be- 
come a  little  tired  of  each  other.  They  did  not  go  about  so 
much  together,  and  when  they  did  Colfax  was  not  as  high-flown 


THE    "GENIUS'  643 

and  boyish  in  his  spirits  as  he  had  formerly  been.  Eugene 
fancied  it  was  White  who  was  caballing  against  him,  but  he 
thought  if  Colfax  was  going  to  change,  he  was  going  to  change, 
and  there  was  no  help  for  it.  There  were  no  grounds,  he 
fancied,  in  so  far  as  the  affairs  of  the  corporation  were  concerned. 
His  work  was  successful. 

The  storm  broke  one  day  out  of  a  clear  sky,  in  so  far  as  the 
office  was  concerned,  but  not  until  there  had  been  much  heart- 
ache and  misery  in  various  directions — with  the  Dales,  with  An- 
gela, and  with  Eugene  himself. 

Suzanne's  action  was  the  lightning  bolt  which  precipitated  the 
storm.  It  could  only  come  from  that  quarter.  Eugene  was 
frantic  to  hear  from  her,  and  for  the  first  time  in  his  life  began 
to  experience  those  excruciating  and  gnawing  pangs  which  are 
the  concomitants  of  uncertain  and  distraught  love.  It  manifested 
itself  in  an  actual  pain  in  his  vitals — in  the  region  of  the  solar 
plexus,  or  what  is  commonly  known  as  the  pit  of  the  stomach. 
He  suffered  there  very  much,  quite  as  the  Spartan  boy  may  have 
done  who  was  gnawed  by  the  fox  concealed  under  his  belt.  He 
would  wonder  where  Suzanne  was,  what  she  was  doing,  and 
then,  being  unable  to  work,  would  call  his  car  and  ride,  or  take 
his  hat  and  walk.  It  did  him  no  good  to  ride,  for  the  agony 
was  in  sitting  still.  At  night  he  would  go  home  and  sit  by  one 
or  the  other  of  his  studio  windows,  principally  out  on  the  little 
stone  balcony,  and  watch  the  changing  panorama  of  the  Hudson, 
yearning  and  wondering  where  she  was.  Would  he  ever  see  her 
again?  Would  he  be  able  to  win  this  battle  if  he  did?  Oh,  her 
beautiful  face,  her  lovely  voice,  her  exquisite  lips  and  eyes,  the 
marvel  of  her  touch  and  beautiful  fancy! 

He  tried  to  compose  poetry  to  her,  and  wrote  a  series  of  son- 
nets to  his  beloved,  which  were  not  at  all  bad.  He  worked  on 
his  sketch  book  of  pencil  portraits  of  Suzanne  seeking  a  hundred 
significant  and  delightful  expressions  and  positions,  which  could 
afterwards  be  elaborated  into  his  gallery  of  paintings  of  her, 
which  he  proposed  to  paint  at  some  time.  It  did  not  matter  to 
him  that  Angela  was  about,  though  he  had  the  graciousness  to 
conceal  these  things  from  her.  He  was  ashamed,  in  a  way,  of  his 
treatment  of  her,  and  yet  the  sight  of  her  now  was  not  so  much 
pitiable  as  objectionable  and  unsatisfactory.  Why  had  he  mar- 
ried her?  He  kept  asking  himself  that. 

They  sat  in  the  studio  one  night.  Angela's  face  was  a  picture 
of  despair,  for  the  horror  of  her  situation  was  only  by  degrees 
coming  to  her,  and  she  said,  seeing  him  so  moody  and  despon- 
dent: 


644  THE    "GENIUS" 

"Eugene,  don't  you  think  you  can  get  over  this?  You  say 
Suzanne  has  been  spirited  away.  Why  not  let  her  go?  Think 
of  your  career,  Eugene.  Think  of  me.  What  will  become  of 
me?  You  can  get  over  it,  if  you  try.  Surely  you  won't  throw 
me  down  after  all  the  years  I  have  been  with  you.  Think  how 
I  have  tried.  I  have  been  a  pretty  good  wife  to  you,  haven't  I? 
I  haven't  annoyed  you  so  terribly  much,  have  I?  Oh,  I  feel 
all  the  time  as  though  we  were  on  the  brink  of  some  terrible 
catastrophe!  If  only  I  could  do  something;  if  only  I  could  say 
something!  I  know  I  have  been  hard  and  irritable  at  times,  but 
that  is  all  over  now.  I  am  a  changed  woman.  I  would  never  be 
that  way  any  more." 

"It  can't  be  done,  Angela,"  he  replied  calmly.  "It  can't  be 
done.  I  don't  love  you.  I've  told  you  that.  I  don't  want  to 
live  with  you.  I  can't.  I  want  to  get  free  in  some  way,  either 
by  divorce,  or  a  quiet  separation,  and  go  my  way.  I'm  not  happy. 
I  never  will  be  as  long  as  I  am  here.  I  want  my  freedom  and 
then  I  will  decide  what  I  want  to  do." 

Angela  shook  her  head  and  sighed.  She  could  scarcely  be- 
lieve that  this  was  she  wandering  around  in  her  own  apartment 
wondering  what  she  was  going  to  do  in  connection  with  her  own 
husband.  Marietta  had  gone  back  to  Wisconsin  before  the  storm 
broke.  Myrtle  was  in  New  York,  but  she  hated  to  confess  to 
her.  She  did  not  dare  to  write  to  any  member  of  her  own  fam- 
ily but  Marietta,  and  she  did  not  want  to  confess  to  her.  Mari- 
etta had  fancied  while  she  was  here  that  they  were  getting  along 
nicely.  She  had  fits  of  crying,  which  alternated  with  fits  of 
anger,  but  the  latter  were  growing  weak.  Fear,  despondency, 
and  grief  were  becoming  uppermost  in  her  soul  again — the  fear 
and  despondency  that  had  weighed  her  down  in  those  lonely  days 
before  she  married  Eugene,  the  grief  that  she  was  now  actually 
and  finally  to  lose  the  one  man  whom,  in  spite  of  everything,  she 
loved  still. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

IT  was  three  days  later  when  he  was  at  his  office  that  a  tele- 
gram came  from  Mrs.  Dale,  which  read,  "I  depend  on  you, 
on  the  honor  of  a  gentleman,  to  ignore  any  message  which  may 
come  from  my  daughter  until  I  see  you." 

Eugene  was  puzzled,  but  fancied  that  there  must  be  a  des- 
perate quarrel  on  between  Suzanne  and  her  mother,  wherever 
they  were,  and  that  it  was  probable  that  he  would  hear  from 
her  now.  It  was  his  first  inkling  as  to  her  whereabouts,  for 
the  telegram  was  sent  off  from  Three  Rivers,  in  Canada,  and  he 
fancied  they  must  be  near  there  somewhere.  The  place  of  des- 
patch did  him  no  good  from  a  material  point  of  view,  for  he 
could  neither  write  nor  pursue  Suzanne  on  the  strength  of  this. 
He  would  not  know  where  to  find  her.  He  could  only  wait, 
conscious  that  she  was  having  a  struggle,  perhaps  as  severe,  or 
possibly  more  so,  than  his  own.  He  wandered  about  with  this 
telegram  in  his  pocket  wondering  when  he  should  hear — what  a 
day  should  bring  forth,  and  all  those  who  came  in  contact  with 
him  noticed  that  there  was  something  wrong. 

Coif  ax  saw  him,  and  asked:  "What's  the  matter,  old  man? 
You're  not  looking  as  chipper  as  you  might."  He  fancied  it 
might  be  something  in  connection  with  the  Blue  Sea  Corporation. 
He  had  heard,  after  he  had  learned  that  Eugene  was  in  it,  that 
it  would  take  much  more  money  than  had  been  invested  to  date 
to  make  it  a  really  successful  seaside  proposition  according  to  the 
original  outlines,  and  that  it  would  be  years  before  it  could  pos- 
sibly yield  an  adequate  return.  If  Eugene  had  put  much  money 
in  it,  he  had  probably  lost  it  or  tied  it  up  in  a  most  unsatisfac- 
tory way.  Well,  it  served  him  right  for  trifling  with  things  he 
knew  nothing  about. 

"Oh,  nothing,"  replied  Eugene  abstractedly.  "I'm  all  right. 
I'm  just  a  little  run  down  physically.  I'll  come  round." 

"You'd  better  take  a  month  or  so  off  and  brace  up,  if  you're 
not  in  shape." 

"Oh,  not  at  all !    Not  now,  anyhow." 

It  occurred  to  Eugene  that  he  might  use  the  time  to  advantage 
a  little  later  and  that  he  would  claim  it. 

They  proceeded  to  business,  but  Colfax  noticed  that  Eugene's 
eyes  were  specially  hollow  and  weary  and  that  he  was  noticeably 

645 


646  THE    "GENIUS" 

restless.     He  wondered  whether  he  might  be  going  to  break 
down  physically. 

Suzanne  had  drifted  along  peacefully  enough  considering  the 
nature  of  the  feeling  between  her  and  her  mother  at  this  time. 
After  a  few  days  of  desultory  discussion,  however,  along  the 
lines  now  so  familiar,  she  began  to  see  that  her  mother  had  no 
intention  of  terminating  their  stay  at  the  time  agreed  upon, 
particularly  since  their  return  to  New  York  meant,  so  far  as 
Suzanne  was  concerned,  her  immediate  departure  to  Witla. 
Mrs.  Dale  began  at  first  to  plead  for  additional  delay,  and 
later  that  Suzanne  should  agree  not  to  go  to  New  York  but  to 
Lenox  for  a  season.  It  was  cold  up  here  already  now,  though 
there  were  still  spells  of  bright  warm  summery  or  autumn 
weather  between  ten  and  four  in  the  day,  and  sometimes  in  the 
evening.  The  nights  usually  were  cold.  Mrs.  Dale  would 
gladly  have  welcomed  a  compromise,  for  it  was  terribly  lonely, 
just  herself  and  Suzanne — after  the  gaieties  of  New  York. 
Four  days  before  the  time  of  her  proposed  departure,  Mrs.  Dale 
was  still  obdurate  or  parleying  in  a  diplomatic  way,  and  Su- 
zanne, disgusted,  made  the  threat  which  caused  Mrs.  Dale  to 
wire  distractedly  to  Eugene.  Later,  she  composed  the  follow- 
ing, which  she  gave  to  Gabrielle: 

"DEAR  EUGENE — 

If  you  love  me,  come  and  get  me.  I  have  told  mama  that  if  she 
did  not  keep  her  word  to  return  with  me  to  New  York  by  the  fifteenth, 
I  would  write  to  you  and  she  is  still  obstinate.  I  am  at  the  Cathcart 
Lodge,  While-a-Way,  eighteen  miles  north  of  Three  Rivers,  here  in 
Canada.  Anyone  can  show  you.  I  will  be  here  when  you  come. 
Do  not  try  to  write  to  me  as  I  am  afraid  I  should  not  get  it.  But 
I  will  be  at  the  Lodge. 

"With  love, 

"SUZANNE." 

Eugene  had  never  before  received  a  love  appeal,  nor  indeed 
any  such  appeal  from  any  woman  in  his  life. 

This  letter  reached  him  thirty-six  hours  after  the  telegram 
arrived,  and  set  him  to  planning  at  once.  The  hour  had  struck. 
He  must  act.  Perhaps  this  old  world  was  now  behind  him  for- 
ever. Could  he  really  get  Suzanne,  if  he  went  to  Canada  to 
find  her?  How  was  she  surrounded?  He  thrilled  with  delight 
when  he  realized  that  it  was  Suzanne  who  was  calling  him  and 
that  he  was  going  to  find  her.  "If  you  love  me,  come  and  get 
me." 

Would  he? 

Watch! 


THE    "GENIUS"  647 

He  called  for  his  car,  telephoned  his  valet  to  pack  his  bag 
and  bring  it  to  the  Grand  Central  Station,  first  ascertaining  for 
himself  the  time  of  departure,  asked  to  talk  to  Angela,  who  had 
gone  to  Myrtle's  apartment  in  upper  Seventh  Avenue,  ready  at 
last  to  confess  her  woes  to  Eugene's  sister.  Her  condition  did 
not  appeal  to  Eugene  in  this  situation.  The  inevitable  result, 
which  he  thought  of  frequently,  was  still  far  away.  He  noti- 
fied Colfax  that  he  was  going  to  take  a  few  days  rest,  went  to 
the  bank  where  he  had  over  four  thousand  dollars  on  deposit, 
and  drew  it  all.  He  then  went  to  a  ticket  office  and  purchased 
a  one-way  ticket,  uncertain  where  his  actions  would  take  him 
once  he  saw  Suzanne.  He  tried  once  more  to  get  Angela,  in- 
tending boldly  to  tell  her  that  he  was  going  to  seek  Suzanne, 
and  to  tell  her  not  to  worry,  that  he  would  communicate  with 
her,  but  she  had  not  returned.  Curiously,  through  all  this,  he 
was  intensely  sorry  for  her,  and  wondered  how  she  would  take 
it,  if  he  did  not  return.  How  would  the  child  be  arranged 
for?  He  felt  he  must  go.  Angela  was  heartsick,  he  knew  that, 
and  frightened.  Still  he  could  not  resist  this  call.  He  could  not 
resist  anything  in  connection  with  this  love  affair.  He  was  like 
a  man  possessed  of  a  devil  or  wrandering  in  a  dream.  He  knew 
that  his  whole  career  was  at  stake,  but  it  did  not  make  any  dif- 
ference. He  must  get  her.  The  whole  world  could  go  hang 
if  he  could  only  obtain  her — her,  the  beautiful,  the  perfect! 

At  five-thirty  the  train  departed,  and  then  he  sat  as  it  rolled 
northward  speculating  on  what  he  was  to  do  when  he  got  there. 
If  Three  Rivers  were  much  of  a  place,  he  could  probably  hire 
an  automobile.  He  could  leave  it  some  distance  from  the 
lodge  and  then  see  if  he  could  not  approach  unobserved  and 
signal  Suzanne.  If  she  were  about,  she  would  no  doubt  be  on 
the  lookout.  At  a  sign  she  would  run  to  him.  They  would 
hurry  to  the  automobile.  The  pursuit  might  quickly  follow,  but 
he  would  arrange  it  so  that  his  pursuers  would  not  know  which 
railroad  station  he  was  going  to.  Quebec  was  the  nearest  big 
city,  he  found  by  studying  the  map,  though  he  might  return  to 
Montreal  and  New  York  or  Buffalo,  if  he  chose  to  go  west — 
he  would  see  how  the  train  ran. 

It  is  curious  what  vagaries  the  human  mind  is  subject  to,  un- 
der conditions  of  this  kind.  Up  to  the  time  of  Eugene's  arrival 
in  Three  Rivers  and  after,  he  had  no  plan  of  campaign,  or  of 
future  conduct  beyond  that  of  obtaining  Suzanne.  He  did  not 
know  that  he  would  return  to  New  York — he  did  not  know  that 
he  would  not.  If  Suzanne  wished,  and  it  were  best,  and  they 
could,  they  would  go  to  England  from  Montreal,  or  France. 


648  THE    "GENIUS' 

If  necessary,  they  could  go  to  Portland  and  sail.  Mrs.  Dale, 
on  the  evidence  that  he  had  Suzanne  and  that  of  her  own  free 
will  and  volition,  might  yield  and  say  nothing,  in  which  case 
he  could  return  to  New  York  and  resume  his  position.  This 
courageous  stand  on  his  part  if  he  had  only  followed  it  might 
have  solved  the  whole  problem  quickly.  It  might  have  been  the 
sword  that  would  have  cut  the  Gordian  Knot.  On  the  train 
was  a  heavy  black-bearded  man,  which  was  always  good  luck 
to  him.  At  Three  Rivers,  when  he  dismounted  from  the  train, 
he  found  a  horseshoe,  which  was  also  a  lucky  sign.  He  did  not 
stop  to  think  what  he  would  do  if  he  really  lost  his  position  and 
had  to  live  on  the  sum  he  had  with  him.  He  was  really  not 
thinking  logically.  He  was  dreaming.  He  fancied  that  he 
would  get  Suzanne  and  have  his  salary,  and  that  somehow  things 
would  be  much  as  they  were.  Of  such  is  the  logic  of  dreams. 

When  he  arrived  at  Three  Rivers,  of  course  the  conditions 
were  not  what  he  anticipated.  It  is  true  that  at  times,  after  a 
long  continued  period  of  dry  weather,  the  roads  were  passable 
for  automobiles,  at  least  as  far  as  While-a-Way,  but  the  weather 
had  not  recently  been  entirely  dry.  There  had  been  a  short 
period  of  cold  rain  and  the  roads  were  practically  impassable, 
save  for  horses  and  carryalls.  There  was  a  carryall  which  went 
as  far  as  St.  Jacques,  four  miles  from  While-a-Way,  where  the 
driver  told  him  he  could  get  a  horse,  if  he  wanted  one.  The 
owner  of  this  hack  line  had  a  stable  there. 

This  was  gratifying  to  him,  and  he  decided  to  make  arrange- 
ments for  two  horses  at  St.  Jacques,  which  he  would  take  to 
within  a  reasonable  distance  of  the  lodge  and  tie  in  some  spot 
where  they  would  not  be  seen.  Then  he  could  consider  the  situ- 
ation and  signal  Suzanne ;  if  she  were  there  on  the  lookout.  How 
dramatic  the  end  would  be!  How  happy  they  would  be  flying 
together!  Judge  then  his  astonishment  on  reaching  St.  Jacques 
to  find  Mrs.  Dale  waiting  for  him.  Word  had  been  telephoned 
by  her  faithful  representative,  the  station  agent  at  Three  Rivers, 
that  a  man  of  Eugene's  description  had  arrived  and  departed  for 
While-a-Way.  Before  this  a  telegram  had  come  from  New  York 
from  Kinroy  to  the  effect  that  Eugene  had  gone  somewhere.  His 
daily  habits  since  Mrs.  Dale  had  gone  away  had  been  under  ob- 
servation. Kinroy,  on  his  return,  had  called  at  the  United  Mag- 
azines Corporation  and  asked  if  Eugene  was  in  the  city.  Here- 
tofore he  had  been  reported  in.  When  on  this  day  he  was  re- 
ported as  having  gone,  Kinroy  called  up  Angela  to  inquire.  She 
also  stated  that  he  had  left  the  city.  He  then  wired  his  mother 
and  she,  calculating  the  time  of  his  arrival,  and  hearing  from  the 


THE    "GENIUS"  649 

station  agent  of  his  taking  the  carryall,  had  gone  down  to  meet 
him.  She  had  decided  to  fight  every  inch  of  the  way  with  all 
the  strategy  at  her  command.  She  did  not  want  to  kill  him — 
had  not  really  the  courage  to  do  that — but  she  still  hoped  to 
dissuade  him.  She  had  not  been  able  to  bring  herself  to  resort 
to  guards  and  detectives  as  yet.  He  could  not  be  as  hard  as  he 
looked  and  acted.  Suzanne  was  bedeviling  him  by  her  support 
and  communications.  She  had  not  been  able  to  govern  there, 
she  saw.  Her  only  hope  was  to  talk  him  out  of  it,  or  into  an 
additional  delay.  If  necessary,  they  would  all  go  back  to  New 
York  together  and  she  would  appeal  to  Colfax  and  Winfield. 
She  hoped  they  would  persuade  him  to  reason.  Anyhow,  she 
would  never  leave  Suzanne  for  one  moment  until  this  thing  had 
been  settled  in  her  favor,  or  brutally  against  her. 

When  Eugene  appeared  she  greeted  him  ^with  her  old  social 
smile  and  called  to  him  affably:  "Come,  get  in." 

He  looked  at  her  grimly  and  obeyed,  but  changed  his  manner 
when  he  saw  that  she  was  really  kindly  in  her  tone  and  greeted 
her  sociably. 

"How  have  you  been  ?"  he  asked. 

"Oh,  quite  well,  thank  you!" 

"And  how  is  Suzanne?" 

"All  right,  I  fancy.     She  isn't  here,  you  know." 

"Where  is  she?"  asked  Eugene,  his  face  a  study  in  defeat. 

"She  went  with  some  friends  to  visit  Quebec  for  ten  days. 
Then  she  is  going  from  there  to  New  York.  I  don't  expect  to 
see  her  here  any  more." 

Eugene  choked  with  a  sense  of  repugnance  to  her  airy  taradid- 
dles. He  did  not  believe  what  she  was  saying — saw  at  once  that 
she  was  fencing  with  him. 

"That's  a  lie,"  he  said  roughly,  "and  it's  out  of  the  whole 
cloth !  She's  here,  and  you  know  it.  Anyhow,  I  am  going  to  see 
for  myself." 

"How  polite  you  are!"  she  laughed  diplomatically.  "That 
isn't  the  way  you  usually  talk.  Anyhow,  she  isn't  here.  You'll 
find  that  out,  if  you  insist.  I  wouldn't  advise  you  to  insist,  for 
I've  sent  for  counsel  since  I  heard  you  were  coming,  and  you 
will  find  detectives  as  well  as  guards  waiting  to  receive  you. 
She  isn't  here,  though,  even  at  that,  and  you  might  just  as  well 
turn  round  and  go  back.  I  will  drive  you  over  to  Three  Rivers, 
if  you  wish.  Why  not  be  reasonable,  now,  and  avoid  a  scene? 
She  isn't  here.  You  couldn't  have  her  if  she  were.  The  people 
I  have  employed  will  prevent  that.  If  you  make  trouble,  you 
will  simply  be  arrested  and  then  the  newspapers  will  have  it. 


650  THE    "GENIUS'5 

Why  not  be  reasonable  now,  Mr.  Witla,  and  go  on  back?  You 
have  everything  to  lose.  There  is  a  train  through  Three  Rivers 
from  Quebec  for  New  York  at  eleven  tonight.  We  can  make 
it.  Don't  you  want  to  do  that?  I  will  agree,  if  you  come  to 
your  senses  now,  and  cause  me  no  trouble  here,  to  bring  Suzanne 
back  to  New  York  within  a  month.  I  won't  let  you  have  her 
unless  you  get  a  divorce  and  straighten  things  out  with  your 
wife,  but  if  you  can  do  that  within  six  months,  or  a  year,  and 
she  still  wants  you,  you  can  have  her.  I  will  promise  in  writing 
to  withdraw  all  objection,  and  see  that  her  full  share  of  her 
property  comes  to  her  uncontested.  I  will  help  you  and  her 
socially  all  I  can.  You  know  I  am  not  without  influence." 

"I  want  to  see  her  first,"  replied  Eugene  grimly  and  disbe- 
lievingly. 

"I  won't  say  that  I  will  forget  everything,"  went  on  Mrs. 
Dale,  ignoring  his  interpolated  remark.  "I  can't — but  I  will 
pretend  to.  You  can  have  the  use  of  my  country  place  at 
Lenox.  I  will  buy  out  the  lease  at  Morristown,  or  the  New 
York  House,  and  you  can  live  in  either  place.  I  will  set  aside 
a  sum  of  money  for  your  wife,  if  you  wish.  That  may  help  you 
obtain  your  release.  Surely  you  do  not  want  to  take  her  under 
the  illegal  condition  which  you  propose,  when  you  can  have  her 
outright  in  this  brilliant  manner  by  waiting  a  little  while.  She 
says  she  does  not  want  to  get  married,  but  that  is  silly  talk, 
based  on  nothing  except  erratic  reading.  She  does,  or  she  will, 
the  moment  she  comes  to  think  about  it  seriously.  Why  not 
help  her?  Why  not  go  back  now  and  let  me  bring  her  to  New 
York  a  little  later  and  then  we  will  talk  this  all  over.  I  shall 
be  very  glad  to  have  you  in  my  family.  You  are  a  brilliant 
man.  I  have  always  liked  you.  Why  not  be  reasonable?  Come 
now  and  let's  drive  over  to  Three  Rivers  and  you  take  the  train 
back  to  New  York,  will  you  ?" 

While  Mrs.  Dale  had  been  talking,  Eugene  had  been  survey- 
ing her  calmly.  What  a  clever  talker  she  was!  How  she  could 
lie!  He  did  not  believe  her.  He  did  not  believe  one  word  that 
she  said.  She  was  fighting  to  keep  him  from  Suzanne,  why  he 
could  readily  understand.  Suzanne  was  somewhere,  here,  he 
fancied,  though,  as  in  the  case  of  her  recent  trip  to  Albany,  she 
might  have  been  spirited  away. 

"Absurd!"  said  Eugene  easily,  defiantly,  indifferently.  "I'll 
not  do  anything  of  the  sort.  In  the  first  place,  I  don't  be- 
lieve you.  If  you  are  so  anxious  to  be  nice  to  me,  let  me  see 
her,  and  then  you  can  say  all  this  in  front  of  her.  I've  come  up 
here  to  see  her,  and  I'm  going  to.  She's  here.  I  know  she  is. 


THE    "GENIUS15  651 

You  needn't  lie.     You  needn't  talk.     I  know  she's  here.     Now 
I'm  going  to  see  her,  if  I  have  to  stay  here  a  month  and  search.'' 

Mrs.  Dale  stirred  nervously.  She  knew  that  Eugene  was  des- 
perate. She  knew  that  Suzanne  had  written  to  him.  Talk  might 
be  useless.  Strategy  might  not  avail,  but  she  could  not  help 
using  it. 

"Listen  to  me,"  she  said  excitedly.  "I  tell  you  Suzanne  is 
not  here.  She's  gone.  There  are  guards  up  there — lots  of  them. 
They  know  who  you  are.  They  have  your  description.  They 
have  orders  to  kill  you,  if  you  try  to  break  in.  Kinroy  is  there. 
He  is  desperate.  I  have  been  having  a  struggle  to  prevent  his 
killing  you  already.  The  place  is  watched.  We  are  watched  at 
this  moment.  Won't  you  be  reasonable?  You  can't  see  her. 
She's  gone.  Why  make  all  this  fuss?  Why  take  your  life  in 
your  hands?" 

"Don't  talk,"  said  Eugene.  "You're  lying.  I  can  see  it  in 
your  face.  Besides,  my  life  is  nothing.  I  am  not  afraid.  Why 
talk?  She's  here.  I'm  going  to  see  her." 

He  stared  before  him  and  Mrs.  Dale  ruminated  as  to  what 
she  was  to  do.  There  were  no  guards  or  detectives,  as  she  said. 
Kinroy  was  not  there.  Suzanne  was  not  away.  This  was  all 
palaver,  as  Eugene  suspected,  for  she  was  too  anxious  to  avoid 
publicity  to  give  any  grounds  for  it,  before  she  was  absolutely 
driven. 

It  was  a  rather  halcyon  evening  after  some  days  of  exceeding 
chill.  A  bright  moon  was  coming  up  in  the  east,  already  dis- 
cernible in  the  twilight,  but  which  later  would  shine  brilliantly. 
It  was  not  cold  but  really  pleasantly  warm,  and  the  rough 
road  along  which  they  were  driving  was  richly  odorous.  Eu- 
gene was  not  unconscious  of  its  beauty,  but  depressed  by  the 
possibility  of  Suzanne's  absence. 

"Oh,  do  be  generous,"  pleaded  Mrs.  Dale,  who  feared  that 
once  they  saw  each  other,  reason  would  disappear.  Suzanne 
would  demand,  as  she  had  been  continually  demanding,  to  be 
taken  back  to  New  York.  Eugene  with  or  without  Suzanne's 
consent  or  plea,  would  ignore  her  overtures  of  compromise  and 
there  would  be  immediate  departure  or  defiant  union  here.  She 
thought  she  would  kill  them  if  need  be,  but  in  the  face  of  Eu- 
gene's defiant  persistence  on  one  side,  and  Suzanne's  on  the 
other,  her  courage  was  failing.  She  was  frightened  by  the  dar- 
ing of  this  man.  "I  will  keep  my  word,"  she  observed  dis- 
tractedly. "Honestly  she  isn't  here.  She's  in  Quebec,  I  tell  you. 
Wait  a  month.  I  will  bring  her  back  then.  We  will  arrange 
things  together.  Why  can't  you  be  generous?" 


652  THE    "GENIUS" 

"I  could  be,"  said  Eugene,  who  was  considering  all  the  bril- 
liant prospects  which  her  proposal  involved  and  being  moved  by 
them,  "but  I  can't  believe  you.  You're  not  telling  me  the  truth. 
You  didn't  tell  the  truth  to  Suzanne  when  you  took  her  from 
New  York.  That  was  a  trick,  and  this  is  another.  I  know  she 
isn't  away.  She's  right  up  there  in  the  lodge,  wherever  it  is. 
You  take  me  to  her  and  then  we  will  talk  this  thing  out  to- 
gether. By  the  way,  where  are  you  going?" 

Mrs.  Dale  had  turned  into  a  bypath  or  half-formed  road 
closely  lined  with  small  trees  and  looking  as  though  it  might  be 
a  woodchoppers'  path. 

"To  the  lodge." 

"I  don't  believe  it,"  replied  Eugene,  who  was  intensely  sus- 
picious. "This  isn't  a  main  road  to  any  such  place  as  that." 

"I  tell  you  it  is." 

Mrs.  Dale  was  nearing  the  precincts  of  the  lodge  and  wanted 
more  time  to  talk  and  plead. 

"Well,"  said  Eugene,  "you  can  go  this  way  if  you  want  to. 
I'm  going  to  get  out  and  walk.  You  can't  throw  me  off  by 
driving  me  around  in  some  general  way.  I'm  going  to  stay  here 
a  week,  a  month,  two  months,  if  necessary,  but  I'm  not  going 
back  without  seeing  Suzanne.  She's  here,  and  I  know  it.  I'll 
go  up  alone  and  find  her.  I'm  not  afraid  of  your  guards." 

He  jumped  out  and  Mrs.  Dale  gave  up  in  despair.  "Wait," 
she  pleaded.  "It's  over  two  miles  yet.  I'll  take  you  there.  She 
isn't  home  tonight,  anyhow.  She's  over  at  the  cottage  of  the 
caretaker.  Oh,  why  won't  you  be  reasonable?  I'll  bring  her  to 
New  York,  I  tell  you.  Are  you  going  to  throw  aside  all  those 
fine  prospects  and  wreck  your  life  and  hers  and  mine?  Oh,  if 
Mr.  Dale  were  only  alive!  If  I  had  a  man  on  whom  I  could 
rely!  Come,  get  in,  and  I'll  drive  you  up  there,  but  promise  me 
you  won't  ask  to  see  her  tonight.  She  isn't  there,  anyway.  She's 
over  at  the  caretaker's.  Oh,  dear,  if  only  something  would  hap- 
pen to  solve  this!" 

"I  thought  you  said  she  was  in  Quebec?" 

"I  only  said  that  to  gain  time.  I'm  so  unstrung.  It  wasn't 
true,  but  she  isn't  at  the  lodge,  truly.  She's  away  tonight.  I 
can't  let  you  stay  there.  Let  me  take  you  back  to  St.  Jacques 
and  you  can  stay  with  old  Pierre  Gaine.  You  can  come  up  in 
the  morning.  The  servants  will  think  it  so  strange.  I  promise 
you  you  shall  see  Suzanne.  I  give  you  my  word." 

"Your  word.  Why,  Mrs.  Dale,  you're  going  around  in  a 
ring!  I  can't  believe  anything  you  say,"  replied  Eugene  calmly. 
He  was  very  much  collected  and  elated  now  since  he  knew  that 


THE    "GENIUS"  653 

Suzanne  was  here.  He  was  going  to  see  her — he  felt  it.  He 
had  Mrs.  Dale  badly  worsted,  and  he  proposed  to  drive  her  until, 
in  the  presence  of  Suzanne,  he  and  his  beloved  dictated  terms. 

"I'm  going  there  tonight  and  you  are  going  to  bring  her  to  me. 
If  she  isn't  there,  you  know  where  to  find  her.  She's  here,  and 
I'm  going  to  see  her  tonight.  We'll  talk  of  all  this  you're  pro- 
posing in  front  of  her.  It's  silly  to  twist  things  around  this  way. 
The  girl  is  with  me,  and  you  know  it.  She's  mine.  You  can't 
control  her.  Now  we  two  will  talk  to  you  together." 

He  sat  back  in  the  light  vehicle  and  began  to  hum  a  tune.  The 
moon  was  getting  clearer. 

"Promise  me  just  one  thing/'  urged  Mrs.  Dale  despairingly. 
"Promise  me  that  you  will  urge  Suzanne  to  accept  my  proposi- 
tion. A  few  months  won't  hurt.  You  can  see  her  in  New 
York  as  usual.  Go  about  getting  a  divorce.  You  are  the  only 
one  who  has  any  influence  with  her.  I  admit  it.  She  won't  be- 
lieve me.  She  won't  listen  to  me.  You  tell  her.  Your  future 
is  in  it.  Persuade  her  to  wait.  Persuade  her  to  stay  up  here 
or  at  Lenox  for  a  little  while  and  then  come  down.  She  will 
obey  you.  She  will  believe  anything  you  say.  I  have  lied.  I 
have  lied  terribly  all  through  this,  but  you  can't  blame  me.  Put 
yourself  in  my  place.  Think  of  my  position.  Please  use  your 
influence.  I  will  do  all  that  I  say  and  more." 

"Will  you  bring  Suzanne  to  me  tonigkt?" 

"Yes,  if  you  promise." 

"Will  you  bring  her  to  me  tonight,  promise  or  no  promise? 
I  don't  want  to  say  anything  to  you  which  I  can't  say  in  front 
of  her." 

"Won't  you  promise  me  that  you  wrill  accept  my  proposition 
and  urge  her  to?" 

"I  think  I  will,  but  I  won't  say.  I  want  her  to  hear  wBat 
you  have  to  say.  I  think  I  will." 

Mrs.  Dale  shook  her  head  despondently. 

"You  might  as  well  acquiesce,"  wTent  on  Eugene.  "I'm  going 
to  see  her  anyhow,  whether  you  will  or  no.  She's  there,  and  I'll 
find  her  if  I  have  to  search  the  house  room  by  room.  She  can 
hear  my  voice." 

He  was  carrying  things  with  a  high  hand. 

"Well,"  replied  Mrs.  Dale,  "I  suppose  I  must.  Please  don't 
let  on  to  the  servants.  Pretend  you're  my  guest.  Let  me  take 
you  back  to  St.  Jacques  tonight,  after  you  see  her.  Don't  stay 
with  her  more  than  half  an  hour." 

She  was  absolutely  frightened  out  of  her  wits  at  this  terrific 
denouement. 


654  THE:<GENIUS' 

Eugene  sat  grimly  congratulating  himself  as  they  jogged  on  in 
the  moonlight.  He  actually  squeezed  her  arm  cheerfully  and 
told  her  not  to  be  so  despairing — that  all  would  come  out  all 
right.  They  would  talk  to  Suzanne.  He  would  see  what  she 
would  have  to  say. 

"You  stay  here/'  she  said,  as  they  reached  a  little  wooded 
knoll  in  a  bend  of  the  road — a  high  spot  commanding  a  vast 
stretch  of  territory  now  lit  by  a  glistening  northern  moon.  "I'll 
go  right  inside  and  get  her.  I  don't  know  whether  she's  there, 
but  if  she  isn't,  she's  over  at  the  caretaker's,  and  we'll  go  over 
there.  I  don't  want  the  servants  to  see  you  meet  her.  Please 
don't  be  demonstrative.  Oh,  be  careful !" 

Eugene  smiled.  How  excited  she  was!  How  pointless,  after 
all  her  threats!  So  this  was  victory.  What  a  fight  he  had  made! 
Here  he  was  outside  this  beautiful  lodge,  the  lights  of  which  he 
could  see  gleaming  like  yellow  gold  through  the  silvery  shad- 
ows. The  air  was  full  of  field  fragrances.  You  could  smell 
the  dewy  earth,  soon  to  be  hard  and  covered  deep  in  snow. 
There  was  still  a  bird's  voice  here  and  there  and  faint  stirrings 
of  the  wind  in  the  leaves.  "On  such  a  night,"  came  back  Shake- 
speare's lines.  How  fitting  that  Suzanne  should  come  to  him 
under  such  conditions!  Oh,  the  wonder  of  this  romance — the 
beauty  of  it!  From  the  very  beginning  it  had  been  set  about 
with  perfections  of  scenery  and  material  environment.  Obvi- 
ously, nature  had  intended  this  as  the  crowning  event  of  his  life. 
Life  recognized  him  as  a  genius — the  fates — it  was  heaping  posies 
in  his  lap,  laying  a  crown  of  victory  upon  his  brow. 

He  waited  while  Mrs.  Dale  went  to  the  lodge,  and  then  after 
a  time,  true  enough,  there  appeared  in  the  distance  the  swinging, 
buoyant,  girlish  form  of  Suzanne.  She  was  plump,  healthful, 
vigorous.  He  could  detect  her  in  the  shadows  under  the  trees 
and  behind  her  a  little  way  Mrs.  Dale.  Suzanne  came  eagerly 
on — youthful,  buoyant,  dancing,  determined,  beautiful.  Her 
skirts  were  swinging  about  her  body  in  ripples  as  she  strode. 
She  looked  all  Eugene  had  ever  thought  her.  Hebe — a  young 
Diana,  a  Venus  at  nineteen.  Her  lips  were  parted  in  a  welcom- 
ing smile  as  she  drew  near  and  her  eyes  were  as  placid  as  those 
dull  opals  which  still  burn  with  a  hidden  lustre  of  gold  and 
flame. 

She  held  out  her  arms  to  him  as  she  came,  running  the  last 
few  steps. 

"Suzanne!"  called  her  mother.     "For  shame!" 

"Hush,  mama!"  declared  Suzanne  defiantly.  "I  don't  care. 
I  don't  care.  It's  your  fault.  You  shouldn't  have  lied  to  me. 


THE    "GENIUS"  655 

He  wouldn't  have  come  if  I  hadn't  sent  for  him.  I'm  going 
back  to  New  York.  I  told  you  I  was." 

She  did  not  say,  "Oh,  Eugene!"  as  she  came  close,  but  gath- 
ered his  face  in  her  hands  and  looked  eagerly  into  his  eyes.  His 
burned  into  hers.  She  stepped  back  and  opened  wide  her  arms 
only  to  fold  them  tightly  about  him. 

"At  last!  At  last!"  he  said,  kissing  her  feverishly.  "Oh,  Su- 
zanne! Oh,  Flower  Face!" 

"I  knew  you  would  come,"  she  said.  "I  told  her  you  would. 
I'll  go  back  with  you." 

"Yes,  yes,"  said  Eugene.  "Oh,  this  wonderful  night!  This 
wonderful  climax !  Oh,  to  have  you  in  my  arms  again !" 

Mrs.  Dale  stood  by,  white,  intense.  To  think  a  daughter  of 
hers  should  act  like  this,  confound  her  so,  make  her  a  helpless 
spectator  of  her  iniquity.  What  an  astounding,  terrible,  impos- 
sible thing! 

"Suzanne!"  she  cried.  "Oh,  that  I  should  have  lived  to  see 
this  day!" 

"I  told  you,  mama,  that  you  would  regret  bringing  me  up 
here,"  declared  Suzanne.  "I  told  you  I  would  write  to  him.  I 
knew  you  would  come,"  she  said  to  Eugene,  and  she  squeezed 
his  hand  affectionately. 

Eugene  inhaled  a  deep  breath  and  stared  at  her.  The  night, 
the  stars  swung  around  him  in  a  gorgeous  orbit.  Thus  it  was 
to  be  victorious.  It  was  too  beautiful,  too  wonderful !  To  think 
he  should  have  triumphed  in  this  way!  Could  any  other  man 
anywhere  ever  have  enjoyed  such  a  victory? 

"Oh,  Suzanne,"  he  said  eagerly,  "this  is  like  a  dream;  it's  like 
heaven !  I  can  scarcely  believe  I  am  alive." 

"Yes,  yes,"  she  replied,  "it  is  beautiful,  perfect!"  And  to- 
gether they  strolled  away  from  her  mother,  hand  in  hand. 


CHAPTER  XX 

THE  flaw  in  this  situation  was  that  Eugene,  after  getting 
Suzanne  in  his  arms  once  more,  had  no  particular  solution 
to  offer.  Instead  of  at  once  outlining  an  open  or  secret  scheme  of 
escape,  or  taking  her  by  main  force  and  walking  off  with  her, 
as  she  more  than  half  expected  him  to  do,  here  he  was  repeating 
to  her  what  her  mother  had  told  him,  and  instead  of  saying 
"Come!"  he  was  asking  her  advice. 

"This  is  what  your  mother  proposed  to  me  just  now,  Suzanne," 
he  began,  and  entered  upon  a  full  explanation.  It  was  a  vision 
of  empire  to  him. 

"I  said  to  her,"  he  said,  speaking  of  her  mother,  who  was 
near  by,  "that  I  would  decide  nothing.  She  wanted  me  to  say 
that  I  would  do  this,  but  I  insisted  that  it  must  be  left  to  you. 
If  you  want  to  go  back  to  New  York,  we  will  go,  tonight  or 
tomorrow.  If  you  want  to  accept  this  plan  of  your  mother's,  it's 
all  right,  so  far  as  I  am  concerned.  I  would  rather  have  you 
now,  but  if  I  can  see  you,  I  am  willing  to  wait." 

He  was  calm  now,  logical,  foolishly  speculative.  Suzanne 
wondered  at  this.  She  had  no  advice  to  offer.  She  had  expected 
some  dramatic  climax,  but  since  it  had  not  come  about,  she  had 
to  be  content.  The  truth  was  that  she  had  been  swept  along  by 
her  desire  to  be  with  Eugene.  It  had  seemed  to  her  in  the  be- 
ginning that  it  was  not  possible  for  him  to  get  a  divorce.  It  had 
seemed  also  from  her  reading  and  youthful  philosophizing  that 
it  was  really  not  necessary.  She  did  not  want  to  be  mean  to 
Angela.  She  did  not  want  Eugene  to  mortify  her  by  openly 
leaving  her.  She  had  fancied  since  Eugene  had  said  that  Angela 
was  not  satisfactory  to  him  and  that  there  was  no  real  love  be- 
tween them,  that  Angela  really  did  not  care — she  had  practi- 
cally admitted  as  much  in  her  letter — that  it  would  not  make  so 
much  difference  if  she  shared  him  with  her.  What  was  he  ex- 
plaining now — a  new  theory  as  to  what  they  were  to  do?  She 
thought  he  was  coming  for  her  to  take  her  away  like  a  god, 
whereas  here  he  was  presenting  a  new  theory  to  her  in  anything 
but  a  god-like  way.  It  was  confusing.  She  did  not  know  how  it 
was  that  Eugene  did  not  want  to  leave  at  once. 

"Well,  I  don't  know — whatever  you  think,"  she  said.  "If 
you  want  me  to  stay  here  another  month " 

"No,  no!"  exclaimed  Eugene  quickly,  conscious  of  a  flaw  in 

656 


THE    "GENIUS"  657 

the  arrangement,  and  anxious  to  make  it  seem  right.  "I  didn't 
mean  that.  Not  that.  I  want  you  to  come  back  with  me  now, 
if  possible,  tonight,  only  I  wanted  to  tell  you  this.  Your  mother 
seems  sincere.  It  seems  a  shame  if  we  can  keep  friends  with  her 
and  still  have  our  way,  not  to  do  so.  I  don't  want  to  do  any 
greater  harm  than  I  can  help  unless  you  are  perfectly  willing 
and "  He  hesitated  over  his  own  thoughts. 

At  this  moment  Suzanne  could  scarcely  have  told  what  she 
felt.  The  crux  of  the  situation  was  being  put  to  her  for  her 
decision,  and  it  should  not  be.  She  was  not  strong  enough,  not 
experienced  enough.  Eugene  should  decide,  and  whatever  he 
decided  would  be  right. 

The  truth  was  that  after  getting  her  in  his  arms  again,  and 
that  in  the  presence  of  her  mother,  Eugene  did  not  feel  that  he 
was  quite  so  much  the  victor  as  he  had  imagined,  or  that  the 
whole  problem  of  his  life  was  solved.  He  could  not  very  well 
ignore,  he  thought,  what  Mrs.  Dale  had  to  offer,  if  she  was 
offering  it  seriously.  She  had  said  to  him  just  before  he  came 
into  the  presence  of  Suzanne  that  unless  he  accepted  these  terms 
she  would  go  on  fighting — that  she  would  telegraph  to  Colfax 
and  ask  him  to  come  up  here.  Although  Eugene  had  drawn  his 
money  and  was  ready  to  fly  if  he  could,  still  the  thought  of  Col- 
fax  and  the  desire  to  keep  his  present  state  of  social  security 
and  gain  all  Mrs.  Dale  had  to  offer  besides  were  deterrents.  He 
hesitated.  Wasn't  there  some  way  to  smooth  everything  out? 

"I  don't  want  you  to  decide  finally/'  he  said,  "but  what  do 
you  think?" 

Suzanne  was  in  a  simmering,  nebulous  state,  and  could  not 
think.  Eugene  was  here.  This  was  Arcady  and  the  moon  was 
high. 

It  was  beautiful  to  have  him  with  her  again.  It  was  won- 
derful to  feel  his  caresses.  But  he  was  not  flying  with  her. 
They  were  not  defying  the  world;  they  were  not  doing  what 
she  fancied  they  would  be  doing,  rushing  to  victory,  and  that 
was  what  she  had  sent  for  him  for.  Mrs.  Dale  was  going  to 
help  Eugene  get  a  divorce,  so  she  said.  She  was  going  to  help 
subsidize  Angela,  if  necessary.  Suzanne  was  going  to  get  mar- 
ried, and  actually  settle  down  after  a  time.  What  a  curious 
thought.  Why  that  was  not  what  she  had  wanted  to  do.  She 
had  wanted  to  flout  convention  in  some  way;  to  do  original 
things  as  she  had  planned,  as  she  had  dreamed.  It  might  be 
disastrous,  but  she  did  not  think  so.  Her  mother  would  have 
yielded.  Why  was  Eugene  compromising?  It  was  curious. 
Such  thoughts  as  these  formulated  in  her  mind  at  this  time 


658  THE  "GENIUS11 

were  the  most  disastrous  things  that  could  happen  to  their  ro- 
mance. Union  should  have  followed  his  presence.  Flight  should 
have  been  a  portion  of  it.  As  it  was  she  was  in  his  arms,  but 
she  was  turning  over  vague,  nebulous  thoughts.  Something — a 
pale  mist  before  an  otherwise  brilliant  moon;  a  bit  of  spindrift; 
a  speck  of  cloud,  no  bigger  than  a  man's  hand  that  might  pos- 
sibly portend  something  and  might  not,  had  come  over  the 
situation.  Eugene  was  as  desirable  as  ever,  but  he  was  not 
flying  with  her.  They  were  talking  about  going  back  to  New 
York  afterwards,  but  they  were  not  going  together  at  once. 
How  was  that? 

"Do  you  think  mama  can  really  damage  you  with  Mr. 
Coif  ax?"  she  asked  curiously  at  one  point,  after  Eugene  had 
mentioned  her  mother's  threat. 

"I  don't  know,"  he  replied  solemnly.  "Yes,  I  think  she 
could.  I  don't  know  what  he'd  do,  though.  It  doesn't  matter 
much  one  way  or  the  other,"  he  added.  Suzanne  puzzled. 

"Well,  if  you  want  to  wait,  it's  all  right,"  she  said.  "I 
want  to  do  whatever  you  think  best.  I  don't  want  you  to 
lose  your  position.  If  you  think  we  ought  to  wait,  we  will." 

"Not  if  I'm  not  to  be  with  you  regularly,"  replied  Eugene, 
who  was  wavering.  He  was  not  your  true  champion  of  victory 
— your  administrative  leader.  Foolishly  he  was  spelling  over  an 
arrangement  whereby  he  could  eat  his  cake  and  have  it — see 
Suzanne,  drive  with  her,  dance  with  her,  all  but  live  with  her  in 
New  York  until  such  time  as  the  actual  union  could  be  ar- 
ranged secretly  or  openly.  Mrs.  Dale  was  promising  to  re- 
ceive him  as  a  son,  but  she  was  merely  plotting  for  time — time 
to  think,  act,  permit  Suzanne,  under  argument,  to  come  to  her 
senses.  Time  would  solve  everything,  she  thought,  and  tonight 
as  she  hung  about,  keeping  close  and  overhearing  some  of  Eugene's 
remarks,  she  felt  relieved.  Either  he  was  coming  to  his  senses 
and  beginning  to  regret  his  folly  or  he  was  being  deluded  by  her 
lies.  If  she  could  keep  him  and  Suzanne  apart  one  more  week, 
and  get  to  New  York  herself,  she  would  go  to  Colfax  now,  and 
to  Winfield,  and  see  if  they  could  not  be  induced  to  use  their 
good  offices.  Eugene  must  be  broken.  He  was  erratic,  insane. 
Her  lies  were  apparently  plausible  enough  to  gain  her  this  delay, 
and  that  was  all  she  wanted. 

"Well,  I  don't  know.  Whatever  you  think,"  said  Suzanne 
again,  after  a  time  between  embraces  and  kisses,  "do  you  want 
me  to  come  back  with  you  tomorrow,  or " 

"Yes,  yes,"  he  replied  quickly  and  vigorously,  "tomorrow,  only 
we  must  try  and  argue  your  mother  into  the  right  frame  of 


THE   "GENIUS"  659 

mind.  She  feels  that  she  has  lost  now  since  we  are  together, 
and  we  must  keep  her  in  that  mind.  She  talks  compromise  and 
that's  just  what  we  want.  If  she  is  willing  to  have  us  make 
some  arrangement,  why  not?  I  would  be  willing  to  let  things 
rest  for  a  week  or  so,  just  to  give  her  a  chance  if  she  wishes. 
If  she  doesn't  change  then  we  can  act.  You  could  come  as 
far  as  Lenox  for  a  week,  and  then  come  on." 

He  talked  like  one  who  had  won  a  great  victory,  whereas  he 
had  really  suffered  a  great  defeat.  He  was  not  taking  Su- 
zanne. 

Suzanne  brooded.     It  was  not  what  she  expected — but — 

"Yes,"  she  said,  after  a  time. 

"Will  you  return  with  me  tomorrow?" 

"Yes." 

"As  far  as  Lenox  or  New  York?" 

"We'll  see  what  mama  says.  If  you  can  agree  with  her — 
anything  you  want — I  am  willing." 

After  a  time  Eugene  and  Suzanne  parted  for  the  night.  It  was 
agreed  that  they  should  see  each  other  in  the  morning,  that  they 
should  go  back  as  far  as  Lenox  together.  Mrs.  Dale  was  to 
help  Eugene  get  a  divorce.  It  was  a  delightfully  affectionate 
and  satisfactory  situation,  but  somehow  Eugene  felt  that  he  was 
not  handling  it  right.  He  went  to  bed  in  one  part  of  the  house 
— Suzanne  in  another — Mrs.  Dale,  fearful  and  watchful,  staying 
near  by,  but  there  was  no  need.  He  was  not  desperate.  He 
went  to  sleep  thinking  that  the  near  future  was  going  to  ad- 
just everything  for  him  nicely,  and  that  he  and  Suzanne  were 
eventually  going  to  get  married. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

THE  next  day,  after  wavering  whether  they  would  not  spend 
a  few  days  here  in  billing  and  cooing  and  listening  to  Mrs. 
Dale's  veiled  pleas  as  to  what  the  servants  might  think,  or  what 
they  might  know  already  or  suspect  from  what  the  station  mas- 
ter at  Three  Rivers  might  say,  they  decided  to  return,  Eugene 
to  New  York,  Suzanne  to  Lenox.  All  the  way  back  to  Albany, 
Eugene  and  Suzanne  sat  together  in  one  seat  in  the  Pullman  like 
two  children  rejoicing  in  each  other's  company.  Mrs.  Dale 
sat  one  seat  away,  turning  over  her  promises  and  pondering 
whether,  after  all,  she  had  not  yet  better  go  at  once  and  try  to 
end  all  by  an  appeal  to  Colfax,  or  whether  she  had  better  wait 
a  little  while  and  see  if  the  affair  might  not  die  down  of  its 
own  accord. 

At  Albany  the  following  morning,  Suzanne  and  Mrs.  Dale 
transferred  to  the  Boston  and  Albany,  Eugene  going  on  to 
New  York.  He  went  to  the  office  feeling  much  relieved,  and 
later  in  the  day  to  his  apartment.  Angela,  who  had  been  under 
a  terrific  strain,  stared  at  him  as  if  he  were  a  ghost,  or  one 
come  back  to  life  from  the  dead.  She.  had  not  known  where 
he  had  gone.  She  had  not  known  whether  he  would  ever  come 
back.  There  was  no  use  in  reproaching  him — she  had  realized 
that  long  since.  The  best  she  could  do  was  to  make  an  appeal. 
She  waited  until  after  dinner,  at  which  they  had  discussed 
the  mere  commonplaces  of  life,  and  then  came  to  his  room, 
where  he  was  unpacking. 

"Did  you  go  to  find  Suzanne  ?"  she  asked. 

"Yes." 

"Is  she  with  you?" 

"No." 

"Oh,  Eugene,  do  you  know  where  I  have  spent  the  last  three 
days?"  she  asked. 

He  did  not  answer. 

"On  my  knees.  On  my  knees  "  she  declared,  "asking  God  to 
save  you  from  yourself." 

"Don't  talk  rot,  Angela,"  he  returned  coldly.  "You  know 
how  I  feel  about  this  thing.  How  much  worse  am  I  now  than 
I  was  before?  I  tried  to  get  you  on  the  phone  to  tell  you.  I 
went  to  find  her  and  bring  her  back,  and  I  did  as  far  as 
Lenox.  I  am  going  to  win  this  fight.  I  am  going  to  get  Su- 

660 


THE   '"GENIUS"  661 

zanne,  either  legally  or  otherwise.  If  you  want  to  give  me  a 
divorce,  you  can.  I  will  provide  amply  for  you.  If  you  don't 
I'm  going  to  take  her,  anyhow.  That's  understood  between 
me  and  her.  Now  what's  the  use  of  hysterics?" 

Angela  looked  at  him  tearfully.  Could  this  be  the  Eugene 
she  had  known?  In  each  scene  with  him,  after  each  plea,  or 
through  it,  she  came  to  this  adamantine  wall.  Was  he  really 
so  frantic  about  this  girl?  Was  he  going  to  do  what  he  said? 
He  outlined  to  her  quite  calmly  his  plans  as  recently  revised, 
and  at  one  point  Angela,  speaking  of  Mrs.  Dale,  interrupted 
him — "she  will  never  give  her  up  to  you — you  will  see.  You 
think  she  will.  She  says  she  will.  She  is  only  fooling  you.  She 
is  fighting  for  time.  Think  what  you  are  doing.  You  can't 
win." 

"Oh,  yes,  I  can,"  said  Eugene,  "I  practically  have  already. 
She  will  come  to  me." 

"She  may,  she  may,  but  at  what  a  cost.  Look  at  me,  Eu- 
gene. Am  I  not  enough?  I  am  still  good  looking.  You  have 
declared  to  me  time  and  again  that  I  have  a  beautiful  form. 
See,  see" — she  tore  open  her  dressing  gown  and  the  robe  de 
nuit,  in  which  she  had  come  in.  She  had  arranged  this  scene, 
especially  thought  it  out,  and  hoped  it  would  move  him.  "Am 
I  not  enough?  Am  I  not  still  all  that  you  desire?" 

Eugene  turned  his  head  away  in  disgust — wearily — sick  of 
their  melodramatic  appeals.  This  was  the  last  role  Angela  should 
have  played.  It  was  the  most  ineffectual,  the  least  appropriate 
at  the  moment.  It  was  dramatic,  striking,  but  totally  ineffec- 
tive under  the  circumstances. 

"It's  useless  acting  in  that  way  to  me,  Angela,"  he  said.  "I'm 
no  longer  to  be  moved  in  that  way  by  you.  All  marital  af- 
fection between  us  is  dead — terribly  so.  Why  plead  to  me  with 
something  that  has  no  appeal.  I  can't  help  it.  It's  dead.  Now 
what  are  we  going  to  do  about  it?" 

Once  more  Angela  turned  wearily.  Although  she  was  nerve 
worn  and  despairing,  she  was  still  fascinated  by  the  tragedy 
which  was  being  played  out  under  her  eyes.  Would  nothing 
make  him  see? 

They  went  their  separate  ways  for  the  night,  and  the  next 
day  he  was  at  his  desk  again.  Word  came  from  Suzanne 
that  she  was  still  in  Lenox,  and  then  that  her  mother  had  gone 
to  Boston  for  a  day  or  two  on  a  visit.  The  fifth  day  Cplfax 
stepped  into  his  office,  and,  hailing  him  pleasantly,  sat  down. 

"Well,  how  are  things  with  you,  old  man?"  he  asked. 

"Oh,  about  the  same,"  said  Eugene.     "I  can't  complain." 


662  THE    "  GENIUS'3 

"Everything  going  all  right  with  you?" 

"Yes,  moderately  so." 

"People  don't  usually  butt  in  on  you  here  when  I'm  here,  do 
they?"  he  asked  curiously. 

"I've  given  orders  against  anything  like  that,  but  I'll  make 
it  doubly  sure  in  this  case,"  said  Eugene,  alert  at  once.  Could 
Colfax  be  going  to  talk  to  him  about  anything  in  connection 
with  his  case?  He  paled  a  little. 

Colfax  looked  out  of  the  window  at  the  distant  panorama  of 
the  Hudson.  He  took  out  a  cigar,  and  cut  the  end,  but  did  not 
light  it. 

"I  asked  you  about  not  being  interrupted,"  he  began  thought- 
fully, "because  I  have  a  little  something  I  want  to  talk  to  you 
about,  which  I  would  rather  no  one  else  heard.  Mrs.  Dale 
came  to  me  the  other  day,"  he  said  quietly.  Eugene  started  at 
the  mention  of  her  name  and  paled  still  more,  but  gave  no 
other  outward  sign.  "And  she  told  me  a  long  story  about 
something  that  you  were  trying  to  do  in  connection  with  her 
daughter — run  away  with  her,  or  go  and  live  with  her  without 
a  license  or  a  divorce,  or  desert  your  wife,  or  something  to  that 
effect,  which  I  didn't  pay  much  attention  to,  but  which  I  have 
to  talk  to  you  about  just  the  same.  Now,  I  never  like  to  meddle 
with  a  man's  personal  affairs.  I  don't  think  that  they  concern 
me.  I  don't  think  they  concern  this  business,  except  in  so  far  as 
they  may  affect  it  unfavorably,  but  I  would  like  to  know  if 
it  is  true.  Is  it?" 

"Yes,"  said  Eugene. 

"Mrs.  Dale  is  an  old  friend  of  mine.  I've  known  her  for 
years.  I  know  Mrs.  Witla,  of  course,  but  not  quite  in  the  same 
way.  I  haven't  seen  as  much  of  her  as  I  have  of  you.  I  didn't 
know  that  you  were  unhappily  married,  but  that  is  neither  here 
nor  there.  The  point  is,  that  she  seems  to  be  on  the  verge  of 
making  a  great  scandal  out  of  this — she  seems  a  little  distracted 
to  me — and  I  thought  I'd  better  come  up  and  have  a  little  talk 
with  you  before  anything  serious  really  happened.  You  know  it 
would  be  a  rather  damaging  thing  to  this  business  if  any  scandal 
were  started  in  connection  with  you  just  at  present." 

He  paused,  expecting  some  protest  or  explanation,  but  Eugene 
merely  held  his  peace.  He  was  tense,  pale,  harried.  So  she 
had  gone  to  Colfax,  after  all.  Instead  of  going  to  Boston;  in- 
stead of  keeping  her  word,  she  had  come  down  here  to  New  York 
and  gone  to  Colfax.  Had  she  told  him  the  full  story?  Very 
likely  Colfax,  in  spite  of  all  his  smooth  words,  would  be  in- 
clined to  sympathize  with  her.  What  must  he  think  of  him? 


THE   "GENIUS"  663 

He  was  rather  conservative  in  a  social  way.  Mrs.  Dale  could  be 
of  service  to  him  in  her  world  in  one  way  and  another.  He 
had  never  seen  Colfax  quite  so  cool  and  deliberate  as  he  was 
now.  He  seemed  to  be  trying  to  maintain  an  exceedingly  ju- 
dicial and  impartial  tone,  which  was  not  characteristic. 

"You  have  always  been  an  interesting  study  to  me,  Witla, 
ever  since  I  first  met  you,"  he  went  on,  after  a  time.  "You're 
a  genius,  I  fancy,  if  there  ever  was  one,  but  like  all  geniuses 
you  are  afflicted  with  tendencies  which  are  erratic.  I  used  to 
think  for  a  little  while  that  maybe  you  sat  down  and  planned 
the  things  which  you  have  carried  through  so  successfully,  but 
I  have  since  concluded  that  you  don't.  You  attract  some  forms 
of  force  and  order.  Also,  I  think  you  have  various  other  facul- 
ties— it  would  be  hard  for  me  to  say  just  what  they  are.  One 
is  vision.  I  know  you  have  that.  Another  is  appreciation  of 
ability.  I  know  you  have  that.  I  have  seen  you  pick  some 
exceptional  people.  You  plan  in  a  way,  but  you  don't  plan  logi- 
cally or  deliberately,  unless  I  am  greatly  mistaken.  The  mat- 
ter of  this  Dale  girl  now  is  an  interesting  case  in  point,  I 
think." 

"Let's  not  talk  of  her,"  said  Eugene  frigidly  and  bridling 
slightly.  Suzanne  was  a  sore  point  with  him.  A  dangerous 
subject.  Colfax  saw  it.  "That's  something  I  can't  talk  about 
very  well." 

"Well,  we  won't,"  put  in  the  other  calmly,  "but  the  point 
can  be  established  in  other  ways.  You'll  admit,  I  think,  that 
you  haven't  been  planning  very  well  in  connection  with  this 
present  situation,  for  if  you  had  been,  you  would  see  that  in 
doing  what  you  have  been  doing  you  have  been  riding  straight 
for  a  fall.  If  you  wrere  going  to  take  the  girl,  and  she  was 
willing,  as  she  appears  to  be,  you  should  have  taken  her  with- 
out her  mother's  knowledge,  old  man.  She  might  have  been 
able  to  adjust  things  afterward.  If  not,  you  would  have  had 
her,  and  I  suppose  you  would  have  been  willing  to  suffer  the 
consequences,  if  you  had  been  caught.  As  it  is,  you  have  let 
Mrs.  Dale  in  on  it,  and  she  has  powerful  friends.  You  can't 
ignore  her.  I  can't.  She  is  in  a  fighting  mood,  and  it  looks 
as  though  she  were  going  to  bring  considerable  pressure  to 
bear  to  make  you  let  go." 

He  paused  again,  waiting  to  see  if  Eugene  would  say  some- 
thing, but  the  latter  made  no  comment. 

"I  want  to  ask  one  question,  and  I  don't  want  you  to  take 
any  offense  at  it,  for  I  don't  mean  anything  by  it,  but  it  will 
help  to  clear  this  matter  up  in  my  own  mind,  and  probably 


664  THE    "GENIUS" 

in  yours  later,  if  you  will.  Have  you  had  anything  to  do  in 
a  compromising  way  with  Miss ?" 

"No,"  said  Eugene  before  he  could  finish. 

"How  long  has  this  fight  been  going  on  ?" 

"Oh,  about  four  weeks,  or  a  little  less." 

Colfax  bit  at  the  end  of  his  cigar. 

"You  have  powerful  enemies  here,  you  know,  Witla.  Your 
rule  hasn't  been  very  lenient.  One  of  the  things  I  have 
noticed  about  you  is  your  utter  inability  to  play  politics.  You 
have  picked  men  who  would  be  very  glad  to  have  your  shoes, 
if  they  could.  If  they  could  get  the  details  of  this  predica- 
ment, your  situation  wouldn't  be  tenable  more  than  fifteen 
minutes.  You  know  that,  of  course.  In  spite  of  anything 
I  might  do  you  would  have  to  resign.  You  couldn't  maintain 
yourself  here.  I  couldn't  let  you.  You  haven't  thought  of 
that  in  this  connection,  I  suppose.  No  man  in  love  does.  I 
know  just  how  you  feel.  From  having  seen  Mrs.  Witla,  I  can 
tell  in  a  way  just  what  the  trouble  is.  You  have  been  reined 
in  too  close.  You  haven't  been  master  in  your  own  home. 
It's  irritated  you.  Life  has  appeared  to  be  a  failure.  You 
have  lost  your  chance,  or  thought  you  had  on  this  matrimonial 
game,  and  it's  made  you  restless.  I  know  this  girl.  She's  beau- 
tiful. But  just  as  I  say,  old  man,  you  haven't  counted  the 
cost — you  haven't  calculated  right — you  haven't  planned.  If 
anything  could  prove  to  me  what  I  have  always  faintly  sus- 
pected about  you,  it  is  this:  You  don't  plan  carefully  enough 
"  and  he  looked  out  of  the  window. 

Eugene  sat  staring  at  the  floor.  He  couldn't  make  out  just 
what  it  was  that  Colfax  intended  to  do  about  it.  He  was 
calmer  in  his  thinking  than  he  had  ever  seen  him  before — less 
dramatic.  As  a  rule,  Colfax  yelled  things — demonstrated,  per- 
formed— made  excited  motions.  This  morning,  he  was  slow, 
thoughtful,  possibly  emotional. 

"In  spite  of  the  fact  that  I  like  you  personally,  Witla — and 
every  man  owes  a  little  something  to  friendship — it  can't  be 
worked  out  in  business,  though — I  have  been  slowly  coming  to 
the  conclusion  that  perhaps,  after  all,  you  aren't  just  the  ideal 
man  for  this  place.  You're  too  emotional,  I  fancy — too  erratic. 
White  has  been  trying  to  tell  me  that  for  a  long  time,  but  I 
wouldn't  believe  it.  I'm  not  taking  his  judgment  now.  I  don't 
know  that  I  would  ever  have  acted  on  that  feeling  or  idea,  if 
this  thing  hadn't  come  up.  I  don't  know  that  I  am  going  to 
do  so  finally,  but  it  strikes  me  that  you  are  in  a  very  ticklish 
position — one  rather  dangerous  to  this  house,  and  you  know 


THE   "GENIUS"  665 

that  this  house  could  never  brook  a  scandal.  Why  the  news- 
papers would  never  get  over  it.  It  would  do  us  infinite  harm. 
I  think,  viewing  it  all  in  all,  that  you  had  better  take  a  year 
off  and  see  if  you  can't  straighten  this  out  quietly.  I  don't 
think  you  had  better  try  to  take  this  girl  unless  you  can  get  a 
divorce  and  marry  her,  and  I  don't  think  you  had  better  try  to 
get  a  divorce  unless  you  can  do  it  quietly.  I  mean  so  far  as 
your  position  here  is  concerned  only.  Apart  from  that,  you 
can  do  wrhat  you  please.  But  remember!  a  scandal  would  af- 
fect your  usefulness  here.  If  things  can  be  patched  up,  well 
and  good.  If  not,  well  then  they  can't.  If  this  thing  gets 
talked  about  much,  you  know  that  there  will  be  no  hope  of 
your  coming  back  here.  I  don't  suppose  you  would  be  willing 
to  give  her  up?" 

"No,"  said  Eugene. 

"I  thought  as  much.  I  know  just  how  you  take  a  thing  of 
this  kind.  It  hits  your  type  hard.  Can  you  get  a  divorce  from 
Mrs.  Witla?" 

"I'm  not  so  sure,"  said  Eugene.  "I  haven't  any  suitable 
grounds.  We  simply  don't  agree,  that's  all — my  life  has  been 
a  hollow  shell." 

"Well,"  said  Colfax,  "it's  a  bad  mix  up  all  around.  I  know 
how  you  feel  about  the  girl.  She's  very  beautiful.  She's  just 
the  sort  to  bring  about  a  situation  of  this  kind.  I  don't  want 
to  tell  you  what  to  do.  You  are  your  own  best  judge,  but  if 
j'ou  will  take  my  advice,  you  won't  try  to  live  with  her  with- 
out first  marrying  her.  A  man  in  your  position  can't  afford  to 
do  it.  You're  too  much  in  the  public  eye.  You  know  you  have 
become  fairly  conspicuous  in  New  York  during  the  last  few 
years,  don't  you?" 

"Yes,"  said  Eugene.  "I  thought  I  had  arranged  that  mat- 
ter with  Mrs.  Dale." 

"It  appears  not.  She  tells  me  that  you  are  trying  to  per- 
suade her  daughter  to  live  with  you;  that  you  have  no  means  of 
obtaining  a  divorce  within  a  reasonable  time;  that  your  wife  is 
in  a — pardon  me,  and  that  you  insist  on  associating  with  her 
daughter,  meanwhile,  which  isn't  possible,  according  to  her. 
I'm  inclined  to  think  she's  right.  It's  hard,  but  it  can't  be 
helped.  She  says  that  you  say  that  if  you  are  not  allowed  to 
do  that,  you  will  take  her  and  live  with  her." 

He  paused  again.     "Will  you?" 

"Yes,"  said  Eugene. 

Colfax  twisted  slowly  in  his  chair  and  looked  out  of  the 
window.  What  a  man !  What  a  curious  thing  love  was ! 


666  THE    "  'GENIUS" 

"When  is  it,"  he  asked  finally,  "that  you  think  you  might 
do  this?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know.  I'm  all  tangled  up  now.  I'll  have  to 
think." 

Colfax  meditated. 

"It's  a  peculiar  business.  Few  people  would  understand  this 
as  well  as  I  do.  Few  people  would  understand  you,  Witla,  as 
I  do.  You  haven't  calculated  right,  old  man,  and  you'll  have 
to  pay  the  price.  We  all  do.  I  can't  let  you  stay  here.  I  wish 
I  could,  but  I  can't.  You'll  have  to  take  a  year  off  and  think 
this  thing  out.  If  nothing  happens — if  no  scandal  arises — well, 
I  won't  say  what  I'll  do.  I  might  make  a  berth  for  you  here 
somewhere — not  exactly  in  the  same  position,  perhaps,  but  some- 
where. I'll  have  to  think  about  that.  Meanwhile" — he  stopped 
and  thought  again. 

Eugene  was  seeing  clearly  how  it  was  with  him.  All  this  talk 
about  coming  back  meant  nothing.  The  thing  that  was  ap- 
parent in  Colfax's  mind  was  that  he  would  have  to  go,  and  the 
reason  that  he  would  have  to  go  was  not  Mrs.  Dale  or  Suzanne, 
or  the  moral  issue  involved,  but  the  fact  that  he  had  lost  Col- 
fax's  confidence  in  him.  Somehow,  through  White,  through 
Mrs.  Dale,  through  his  own  actions  day  in  and  day  out,  Colfax 
had  come  to  the  conclusion  that  he  was  erratic,  uncertain,  and, 
for  that  reason,  nothing  else,  he  was  being  dispensed  with  now. 
It  was  Suzanne — it  was  fate,  his  own  unfortunate  temperament. 
He  brooded  pathetically,  and  then  he  said:  "When  do  you 
want  this  to  happen  ?" 

"Oh,  any  time,  the  quicker,  the  better,  if  a  public  scandal  is 
to  grow  out  of  it.  If  you  want  you  can  take  your  time,  three 
weeks,  a  month,  six  weeks.  You  had  better  make  it  a  matter 
of  health  and  resign  for  your  own  good. — I  mean  the  looks  of 
the  thing.  That  won't  make  any  difference  in  my  subsequent 
conclusions.  This  place  is  arranged  so  well  now,  that  it  can 
run  nicely  for  a  year  without  much  trouble.  We  might  fix 
this  up  again — it  depends " 

Eugene  wished  he  had  not  added  the  last  hypocritical  phrase. 

He  shook  hands  and  went  to  the  door  and  Eugene  strolled 
to  the  window.  Here  was  all  the  solid  foundation  knocked  from 
under  him  at  one  fell  stroke,  as  if  by  a  cannon.  He  had  lost 
this  truly  magnificent  position,  $25,000  a  year.  Where  would 
he  get  another  like  it?  Who  else — what  other  company  could 
pay  any  such  salary?  How  could  he  maintain  the  Riverside 
Drive  apartment  now,  unless  he  married  Suzanne?  How  could 
he  have  his  automobile — his  valet?  Colfax  said  nothing  about 


THE    "GENIUS"  667 

continuing  his  income — why  should  he?  He  really  owed  him 
nothing.  He  had  been  exceedingly  well  paid — better  paid  than 
he  would  have  been  anywhere  else. 

He  regretted  his  fanciful  dreams  about  Blue  Sea — his  silly 
enthusiasm  in  tying  up  all  his  money  in  that.  Would  Mrs. 
Dale  go  to  Winfield?  Would  her  talk  do  him  any  real  harm 
there?  Winfield  had  always  been  a  good  friend  to  him,  had 
manifested  a  high  regard.  This  charge,  this  talk  of  abduc- 
tion. What  a  pity  it  all  was.  It  might  change  Winfield's 
attitude,  and  still  why  should  it?  He  had  women;  no  wife, 
however.  He  hadn't,  as  Colfax  said,  planned  this  thing  quite 
right.  That  was  plain  now.  His  shimmering  world  of  dreams 
was  beginning  to  fade  like  an  evening  sky.  It  might  be  that 
he  had  been  chasing  a  will-o'-the-wisp,  after  all.  Could  this 
really  be  possible?  Could  it  be? 


CHAPTER  XXII 

ONE  would  have  thought  that  this  terrific  blow  would  have 
given  Eugene  pause  in  a  way,  and  it  did.  It  frightened 
him.  Mrs.  Dale  had  gone  to  Colfax  in  order  to  persuade  him 
to  use  his  influence  to  make  Eugene  behave  himself,  and,  having 
done  so  much,  she  was  actually  prepared  to  go  further.  She 
was  considering  some  scheme  whereby  she  could  blacken  Eugene, 
have  his  true  character  become  known  without  in  any  way  in- 
volving Suzanne.  Having  been  relentlessly  pursued  and  harried 
by  Eugene,  she  was  now  as  relentless  in  her  own  attitude.  She 
wanted  him  to  let  go  now,  entirely,  if  she  could,  not  to  see 
Suzanne  any  more  and  she  went,  first  to  Winfield,  and  then 
back  to  Lenox  with  the  hope  of  preventing  any  further  com- 
munication, or  at  least  action  on  Suzanne's  part,  or  Eugene's 
possible  presence  there. 

In  so  far  as  her  visit  to  Winfield  was  concerned,  it  did  not 
amount  to  so  much  morally  or  emotionally  in  that  quarter,  for 
Winfield  did  not  feel  that  he  was  called  upon  to  act  in  the 
matter.  He  was  not  Eugene's  guardian,  nor  yet  a  public  censor 
of  morals.  He  waived  the  whole  question  grandly  to  one  side, 
though  in  a  way  he  was  glad  to  know  of  it,  for  it  gave  him  an 
advantage  over  Eugene.  He  was  sorry  for  him  a  little — what 
man  would  not  be?  Nevertheless,  in  his  thoughts  of  reorganizing 
the  Blue  Sea  Corporation,  he  did  not  feel  so  bad  over  what 
might  become  of  Eugene's  interests.  When  the  latter  ap- 
proached him,  as  he  did  some  time  afterward,  with  the  idea  that 
he  might  be  able  to  dispose  of  his  holdings,  he  saw  no  way  to 
do  it.  The  company  was  really  not  in  good  shape.  More  money 
would  have  to  be  put  in.  All  the  treasury  stock  would  have 
to  be  quickly  disposed  of,  or  a  reorganization  would  have  to  be 
effected.  The  best  that  could  be  promised  under  these  cir- 
cumstances was  that  Eugene's  holdings  might  be  exchanged  for 
a  fraction  of  their  value  in  a  new  issue  by  a  new  group  of  direc- 
tors. So  Eugene  saw  the  end  of  his  dreams  in  that  direction 
looming  up  quite  clearly. 

When  he  saw  what  Mrs.  Dale  had  done,  he  saw  also  that  it 
was  necessary  to  communicate  the  situation  clearly  to  Suzanne. 
HThe  whole  thing  pulled  him  up  short,  and  he  began  to  wonder 
what  was  to  become  of  him.  With  his  twenty-five  thousand  a 
year  in  salary  cut  off,  his  prospect  of  an  independent  fortune  in 

668 


THE    ''GENIUS"  669 

Blue  Sea  annihilated,  the  old  life  closed  to  him  for  want  of 
cash,  for  who  can  go  about  in  society  without  money?  he  saw 
that  he  was  in  danger  of  complete  social  and  commercial  ex- 
tinction. If  by  any  chance  a  discussion  of  the  moral  relation 
between  him  and  Suzanne  arose,  his  unconscionable  attitude  to- 
ward Angela,  if  White  heard  of  it  for  instance,  what  would 
become  of  him?  The  latter  would  spread  the  fact  far  and 
wide.  It  would  be  the  talk  of  the  town,  in  the  publishing  world 
at  least.  It  would  close  every  publishing  house  in  the  city  to 
him.  He  did  not  believe  Colfax  would  talk.  He  fancied  that 
Mrs.  Dale  had  not,  after  all,  spoken  to  Winfield,  but  if  she  had, 
how  much  further  would  it  go?  Would  White  hear  of  it 
through  Colfax?  Would  he  keep  it  a  secret  if  he  knew? 
Never!  The  folly  of  what  he  had  been  doing  began  to  dawn 
upon  him  dimly.  What  was  it  that  he  had  been  doing?  He 
felt  like  a  man  who  had  been  cast  into  a  deep  sleep  by  a  powerful 
opiate  and  was  now  slowly  waking  to  a  dim  wondering  sense 
of  where  he  was.  He  was  in  New  York.  He  had  no  position. 
He  had  little  ready  money — perhaps  five  or  six  thousand  all  told. 
He  had  the  love  of  Suzanne,  but  her  mother  was  still  fighting 
him,  and  he  had  Angela  on  his  hands,  undivorced.  How  was  he 
to  arrange  things  now?  How  could  he  think  of  going  back  to 
her  ?  Never ! 

He  sat  down  and  composed  the  following  letter  to  Suzanne, 
which  he  thought  would  make  clear  to  her  just  how  things 
stood  and  give  her  an  opportunity  to  retract  if  she  wished,  for 
he  thought  he  owed  that  much  to  her  now: 

"FLOWER  FACE: 

I  had  a  talk  with  Mr.  Colfax  this  morning  and  what  I  feared  might 
happen  has  happened.  Your  mother,  instead  of  going  to  Boston  as  you 
thought,  came  to  New  York  and  saw  him  and,  I  fancy,  my  friend 
Winfield,  too.  She  cannot  do  me  any  harm  in  that  direction,  for  my 
relationship  with  that  company  does  not  depend  on  a  salary,  or  a 
fixed  income  of  any  kind,  but  she  has  done  me  infinite  harm  here. 
Frankly,  I  have  lost  my  position.  I  do  not  believe  that  would  have 
come  about  except  for  other  pressure  with  which  she  had  nothing  to 
do,  but  her  charges  and  complaints,  coming  on  top  of  opposition  here 
on  the  part  of  someone  else,  has  done  what  she  couldn't  have  done 
alone.  Flower  Face,  do  you  know  what  that  means?  I  told  you  once 
that  I  had  tied  up  all  my  spare  cash  in  Blue  Sea,  which  I  hoped  would 
come  to  so  much.  It  may,  but  the  cutting  off  my  salary  here  means 
great  changes  for  me  there,  unless  I  can  make  some  other  business 
engagement  immediately.  I  shall  probably  have  to  give  up  my  apart- 
ment in  Riverside  Drive  and  my  automobile,  and  in  other  ways  trim 
my  sails  to  meet  the  bad  weather.  It  means  that  if  you  come  to  me, 
we  should  have  to  live  on  what  I  can  earn  as  an  artist  unless  I 
should  decide  and  be  able  to  find  something  else.  When  I  came  to 


670  THE   "GENIUS" 

Canada  for  you,  I  had  some  such  idea  in  mind,  but  since  this  thing 
has  actually  happened,  you  may  think  differently.  If  nothing  happens 
to  my  Blue  Sea  investment,  there  may  be  an  independent  fortune  some 
day  in  that.  I  can't  tell,  but  that  is  a  long  way  off,  and  meanwhile, 
there  is  only  this,  and  I  don't  know  what  else  your  mother  may  do  to 
my  reputation.  She  appears  to  be  in  a  very  savage  frame  of  mind. 
You  heard  what  she  said  at  While-a-Way.  She  has  evidently  gone  back 
on  that  completely. 

"Flower  Face,  I  lay  this  all  before  you  so  that  you  may  see  how 
things  are.  If  you  come  to  me  it  may  be  in  the  face  of  a  faded 
reputation.  You  must  realize  that  there  is  a  great  difference  between 
Eugene  Witla,  Managing  Publisher  of  the  United  Magazines  Corpora- 
tion, and  Eugene  Witla,  Artist.  I  have  been  very  reckless  and  defiant 
in  my  love  for  you.  Because  you  are  so  lovely — the  most  perfect  thing 
that  I  have  ever  known,  I  have  laid  all  on  the  altar  of  my  affection. 
I  would  do  it  again,  gladly — a  thousand  times.  Before  you  came,  my 
life  was  a  gloomy  thing.  I  thought  I  was  living,  but  I  knew  in  my 
heart  that  it  was  all  a  dusty  shell — a  lie.  Then  you  came,  and  oh, 
how  I  have  lived!  The  nights,  the  days  of  beautiful  fancy.  Shall 
I  ever  forget  White  Wood,  or  Blue  Sea,  or  Briarcliff,  or  that  wonder- 
ful first  day  at  South  Beach?  Little  girl,  our  ways  have  been  the  ways 
of  perfectness  and  peace.  This  has  been  an  intensely  desperate  thing 
to  do,  but  for  my  sake,  I  am  not  sorry.  I  have  been  dreaming  a  won- 
derfully sweet  and  perfect  dream.  It  may  be  when  you  know  all  and 
see  how  things  stand,  and  stop  and  think,  as  I  now  ask  you  to  do, 
you  may  be  sorry  and  want  to  change  your  mind.  Don't  hesitate  to  do 
so  if  you  feel  that  way.  You  know  I  told  you  to  think  calmly  long 
ago  before  you  told  your  mother.  This  is  a  bold,  original  thing  we  have 
been  planning.  It  is  not  to  be  expected  that  the  world  would  see  it  as 
we  have.  It  is  quite  to  be  expected  that  trouble  would  follow  in  the 
wake  of  it,  but  it  seemed  possible  to  me,  and  still  seems  so.  If  you 
want  to  come  to  me,  say  so.  If  you  want  me  to  come  to  you,  speak 
the  word.  We  will  go  to  England  or  Italy,  and  I  will  try  my  hand 
at  painting  again.  I  can  do  that  I  am  sure.  Or,  we  can  stay  here, 
and  I  can  see  if  some  engagement  cannot  be  had. 

"You  want  to  remember,  though,  that  your  mother  may  not  have  fin- 
ished fighting.  She  may  go  to  much  greater  lengths  than  she  has  gone. 
You  thought  you  might  control  her,  but  it  seems  not.  I  thought  we  had 
won  in  Canada,  but  it  appears  not.  If  she  attempts  to  restrain  you 
from  using  your  share  of  your  father's  estate,  she  may  be  able  to  cause 
you  trouble  there.  If  she  attempts  to  incarcerate  you,  she  might  be 
successful.  I  wish  I  could  talk  to  you.  Can't  I  see  you  at  Lenox? 
Are  you  coming  home  next  week?  We  ought  to  think  and  plan  and 
act  now  if  at  all.  Don't  let  any  consideration  for  me  stand  in  your 
way,  though,  if  you  are  doubtful.  Remember  that  conditions  are  dif- 
ferent now.  Your  whole  future  hangs  on  your  decision.  I  should 
have  talked  this  way  long  ago,  perhaps,  but  I  did  not  think  your 
mother  could  do  what  she  has  succeeded  in  doing.  I  did  not  think 
my  financial  standing  would  play  any  part  in  it. 

"Flower  Face,  this  is  the  day  of  real  trial  for  me.  I  am  unhappy, 
but  only  at  the  possible  prospect  of  losing  you.  Nothing  of  all  these 
other  things  really  matters.  With  you,  everything  would  be  perfect, 
whatever  my  condition  might  be.  Without  you,  it  will  be  as  dark  as 
night.  The  decision  is  in  your  hands  and  you  must  act.  Whatever 
you  decide,  that  I  will  do.  Don't,  as  I  say,  let  consideration  for  me 


THE    "GENIUS"  671 

stand  in  the  way.  You  are  young.  You  have  a  social  career  before 
you.  After  all,  I  am  twice  your  age.  I  talk  thus  sanely  because  if 
you  come  to  me  now,  I  want  you  to  understand  clearly  how  you 
come. 

"Oh,  I  wonder  sometimes  if  you  really  understand.  I  wonder  if  I 
have  been  dreaming  a  dream.  You  are  so  beautiful.  You  have  been 
such  an  inspiration  to  me.  Has  this  been  a  lure — a  will-o'-the wisp? 
I  wonder.  I  wonder.  And  yet  I  love  you,  love  you,  love  you.  A 
thousand  kisses,  Divine  Fire,  and  I  wait  for  your  word. 

"EUGENE." 

Suzanne  read  this  letter  at  Lenox,  and  for  the  first  time  in 
her  life  she  began  to  think  and  ponder  seriously.  What  had 
she  been  doing?  What  was  Eugene  doing?  This  denouement 
frightened  her.  Her  mother  was  more  purposeful  than  she 
imagined.  To  think  of  her  going  to  Colfax — of  her  lying  and 
turning  so  in  her  moods.  She  had  not  thought  this  possible  of 
her  mother.  Had  not  thought  it  possible  that  Eugene  could  lose 
his  position.  He  had  always  seemed  so  powerful  to  her ;  so  much 
a  law  unto  himself.  Once  when  they  were  out  in  an  automobile 
together,  he  had  asked  her  why  she  loved  him,  and  she  said, 
"because  you  are  a  genius  and  can  do  anything  you  please." 

"Oh,  no,"  he  answered,  "nothing  like  that.  I  can't  really 
do  very  much  of  anything.  You  just  have  an  exaggerated  notion 
of  me." 

"Oh,  no,  I  haven't,"  she  replied.  "You  can  paint,  and  you 
can  write" — she  was  judging  by  some  of  the  booklets  about  Blue 
Sea  and  verses  about  herself  and  clippings  of  articles  done  in 
his  old  Chicago  newspaper  days,  which  he  showed  her  once  in 
a  scrapbook  in  his  apartment — "and  you  can  run  that  office,  and 
you  were  an  advertising  manager  and  an  art  director." 

She  lifted  up  her  face  and  looked  into  his  eyes  admiringly. 

"My,  what  a  list  of  accomplishments!"  he  replied.  "Well 
whom  the  gods  would  destroy  they  first  make  mad."  He 
kissed  her. 

"And  you  love  so  beautifully,"  she  added  by  way  of  climax. 

Since  then,  she  had  thought  of  this  often,  but  now,  some- 
how, it  received  a  severe  setback.  He  was  not  quite  so  power- 
ful. He  could  not  prevent  her  mother  from  doing  this,  and 
could  she  really  conquer  her  mother?  Whatever  Suzanne 
might  think  of  her  deceit,  she  was  moving  Heaven  and  earth 
to  prevent  this.  Was  she  wholly  wrong?  After  that  climacteric 
night  at  St.  Jacques,  when  somehow  the  expected  did  not  happen, 
Suzanne  had  been  thinking.  Did  she  really  want  to  leave  home, 
and  go  with  Eugene?  Did  she  want  to  fight  her  mother  in  re- 
gard to  her  estate?  She  might  have  to  do  that.  Her  original 


672  THE    "GENIUS" 

idea  had  been  that  she  and  Eugene  would  meet  in  some  lovely 
studio,  and  that  she  would  keep  her  own  home,  and  he  would 
have  his.  It  was  something  very  different,  this  talk  of  poverty, 
and  not  having  an  automobile,  and  being  far  away  from  home. 
Still  she  loved  him.  Maybe  she  could  force  her  mother  to 
terms  yet. 

There  were  more  struggles  in  the  two  or  three  succeeding 
days,  in  which  the  guardian  of  the  estate — Mr.  Herbert  Pitcairn, 
of  the  Marquardt  Trust  Company,  and,  once  more,  Dr.  Woolley, 
were  called  in  to  argue  with  her.  Suzanne,  unable  to  make  up 
her  mind,  listened  to  her  mother's  insidious  plea,  that  if  she 
would  wait  a  year,  and  then  say  she  really  wanted  him,  she 
could  have  him;  listened  to  Mr.  Pitcairn  tell  her  mother  that 
he  believed  any  court  would  on  application  adjudge  her  incom- 
petent and  tie  up  her  estate;  heard  Dr.  Woolley  say  in  her 
presence  to  her  mother  that  he  did  not  deem  a  commission  in 
lunacy  advisable,  but  if  her  mother  insisted,  no  doubt  a.  judge 
would  adjudge  her  insane,  if  no  more  than  to  prevent  this  un- 
hallowed consummation.  Suzanne  became  frightened.  Her 
iron  nerve,  after  Eugene's  letter,  was  weakening.  She  was 
terribly  incensed  against  her  mother,  but  she  began  now  for 
the  first  time  to  think  what  her  friends  would  think.  Supposing 
her  mother  did  lock  her  up.  Where  would  they  think  she  was? 
All  these  days  and  weeks  of  strain,  which  had  worn  her 
mother  threadbare  had  told  something  on  her  own  strength, 
or  rather  nerve.  It  was  too  intense,  and  she  began  to  wonder 
whether  they  had  not  better  do  as  Eugene  suggested,  and  wait 
a  little  while.  He  had  agreed  up  at  St.  Jacques  to  wait,  if  she 
were  willing.  Only  the  provision  was  that  they  were  to  see  each 
other.  Now  her  mother  had  changed  front  again,  pleading 
danger,  undue  influence,  that  she  ought  to  have  at  least  a  year 
of  her  old  kind  of  life  undisturbed  to  see  whether  she  really 
cared. 

"How  can  you  tell?"  she  insisted  to  Suzanne,  in  spite  of 
the  girl's  desire  not  to  talk.  "You  have  been  swept  into  this, 
and  you  haven't  given  yourself  time  to  think.  A  year  won't 
hurt.  What  harm  will  it  do  you  or  him?" 

"But,  mama,"  asked  Suzanne  over  and  over  at  different 
times,  and  in  different  places,  "why  did  you  go  and  tell  Mr. 
Colfax?  What  a  mean,  cruel  thing  that  was  to  do!" 

"Because  I  think  he  needs  something  like  that  to  make  him 
pause  and  think.  He  isn't  going  to  starve.  He  is  a  man  of 
talent.  He  needs  something  like  that  to  bring  him  to  his  senses. 
Mr.  Colfax  hasn't  discharged  him.  He  told  me  he  wouldn't.  He 


THE    "GENIUS"  673 

said  he  would  make  him  take  a  year  off  and  think  about  it,  and 
that's  just  what  he  has  done.  It  won't  hurt  him.  I  don't  care 
if  it  does.  Look  at  the  way  he  has  made  me  suffer." 

She  felt  exceedingly  bitter  toward  Eugene,  and  was  re- 
joicing that  at  last  she  was  beginning  to  have  her  innings. 

"Mama,"  said  Suzanne,  "I  am  never  going  to  forgive  you 
for  this.  You  are  acting  horribly — I  will  wait,  but  it  will  come 
to  the  same  thing  in  the  end.  I  am  going  to  have  him." 

"I  don't  care  what  you  do  after  a  year,"  said  Mrs.  Dale  cheer- 
fully and  subtly.  "If  you  will  just  wait  that  long  and  give 
yourself  time  to  think  and  still  want  to  marry  him,  you  can 
do  so.  He  can  probably  get  a  divorce  in  that  time,  anyhow." 
She  did  not  mean  what  she  was  saying,  but  any  argument  was 
good  for  the  situation,  if  it  delayed  matters. 

"But  I  don't  know  that  I  want  to  marry  him,"  insisted  Su- 
zanne, doggedly,  harking  back  to  her  original  idea.  "That  isn't 
my  theory  of  it." 

"Oh,  well,"  replied  Mrs.  Dale  complaisantly,  "you  will  know 
better  what  to  think  of  that  after  a  year.  I  don't  want  to  co- 
erce you,  but  I'm  not  going  to  have  our  home  and  happiness 
broken  up  in  this  way  without  turning  a  hand,  and  without 
your  stopping  to  think  about  it.  You  owe  it  to  me — to  all  these 
years  I  have  cared  for  you,  to  show  me  some  consideration.  A 
year  won't  hurt  you.  It  won't  hurt  him.  You  will  find  out 
then  whether  he  really  loves  you  or  not.  This  may  just  be 
a  passing  fancy.  He  has  had  other  women  before  you.  He 
may  have  others  after  you.  He  may  go  back  to  Mrs.  Witla.  It 
doesn't  make  any  difference  what  he  tells  you.  You  ought  to 
test  him  before  you  break  up  his  home  and  mine.  If  he  really 
loves  you,  he  will  agree  readily  enough.  Do  this  for  me,  Su- 
zanne, and  I  will  never  cross  your  path  any  more.  If  you  will 
wait  a  year  you  can  do  anything  you  choose.  I  can  only  hope 
you  wron't  go  to  him  without  going  as  his  wife,  but  if  you  in- 
sist, I  will  hush  the  matter  up  as  best  I  can.  Write  to  him  and 
tell  him  that  you  have  decided  that  you  both  ought  to  wait  a 
year.  You  don't  need  to  see  him  any  more.  It  will  just  stir 
things  all  up  afresh.  If  you  don't  see  him,  but  just  write,  it 
will  be  better  for  him,  too.  He  won't  feel  so  badly  as  he  will 
if  you  see  him  again  and  go  all  over  the  ground  once  more." 

Mrs.  Dale  was  terribly  afraid  of  Eugene's  influence,  but  she 
could  not  accomplish  this. 

"I  won't  do  that,"  said  Suzanne,  "I  won't  do  it.  I'm  going 
back  to  New  York,  that's  all  there  is  about  it!"  Mrs.  Dale 
finally  yielded  that  much.  She  had  to. 


674  THE    "GENIUS" 

There  was  a  letter  from  Suzanne  after  three  days,  saying  that 
she  couldn't  answer  his  letter  in  full,  but  that  she  was  coming 
back  to  New  York  and  would  see  him,  and  subsequently  a 
meeting  between  Suzanne  and  Eugene  at  Daleview  in  her 
mother's  presence — Dr.  Woolley  and  Mr.  Pitcairn  were  in  an- 
other part  of  the  house  at  the  time — in  which  the  proposals  were 
gone  over  anew. 

Eugene  had  motored  down  after  Mrs.  Dale's  demands  had 
been  put  before  him  in  the  gloomiest  and  yet  more  feverish 
frame  of  mind  in  which  he  had  ever  been, — gloomy  because  of 
heavy  forebodings  of  evil  and  his  own  dark  financial  condition — 
while  inspirited  at  other  moments  by  thoughts  of  some  splendid, 
eager  revolt  on  the  part  of  Suzanne,  of  her  rushing  to  him,  defy- 
ing all,  declaring  herself  violently  and  convincingly,  and  so 
coming  off  a  victor  with  him.  His  faith  in  her  love  was  still 
so  great. 

The  night  was  one  of  those  cold  October  ones  with  a  steely 
sky  and  a  sickle  moon,  harbinger  of  frost,  newly  seen  in  the  west, 
and  pointed  stars  thickening  overhead.  As  he  sat  in  his  car  on 
the  Staten  Island  ferry  boat,  he  could  see  a  long  line  of  south- 
ward bound  ducks,  homing  to  those  reedy  marshes  which  Bryant 
had  in  mind  when  he  wrote  "To  a  Waterfowl."  They  were 
honking  as  they  went,  their  faint  "quacks"  coming  back  on  the 
thin  air  and  making  him  feel  desperately  lonely  and  bereft. 
When  he  reached  Daleview,  speeding  past  October  trees,  and 
entered  the  great  drawing-room  where  a  fire  was  blazing  and 
where  once  in  spring  he  had  danced  with  Suzanne,  his  heart 
leaped  up,  for  he  was  to  see  her,  and  the  mere  sight  of  her  was 
as  a  tonic  to  his  fevered  body — a  cool  drink  to  a  thirsting  man. 

Mrs.  Dale  stared  at  Eugene  defiantly  when  he  came,  but 
Suzanne  welcomed  him  to  her  embrace.  "Oh!"  she  exclaimed, 
holding  him  close  for  a  few  moments  and  breathing  feverishly. 
There  was  complete  silence  for  a  time. 

"Mama  insists,  Eugene,"  she  said  after  a  time,  "that  we 
ought  to  wait  a  year,  and  I  think  since  there  is  such  a  fuss 
about  it,  that  perhaps  it  might  be  just  as  well.  We  may  have 
been  just  a  little  hasty,  don't  you  think?  I  have  told  mama 
what  I  think  about  her  action  in  going  to  Mr.  Colfax,  but  she 
doesn't  seem  to  care.  She  is  threatening  now  to  have  me  ad- 
judged insane.  A  year  won't  make  any  real  difference  since 
I  am  coming  to  you,  anyhow,  will  it?  But  I  thought  I  ought 
to  tell  you  this  in  person,  to  ask  you  about  it" — she  paused,  look- 
ing into  his  eyes. 

"I  thought  we  settled  all  this  up  in  St.  Jacques?"  said  Eu- 


THE   "GENIUS"  675 

gene,  turning  to  Mrs.  Dale,  but  experiencing  a  sinking  sensation 
of  fear. 

"We  did,  all  except  the  matter  of  not  seeing  her.  I  think  it 
is  highly  inadvisable  that  you  two  should  be  together.  It  isn't 
possible  the  way  things  stand.  People  will  talk.  Your  wife's 
condition  has  to  be  adjusted.  You  can't  be  running  around 
with  her  and  a  child  coming  to  you.  I  want  Suzanne  to  go 
away  for  a  year  where  she  can  be  calm  and  think  it  all  out, 
and  I  want  you  to  let  her.  If  she  still  insists  that  she  wants 
you  after  that,  and  will  not  listen  to  the  logic  of  the  situa- 
tion in  regard  to  marriage,  then  I  propose  to  wash  my  hands 
of  the  whole  thing.  She  may  have  her  inheritance.  She  may 
have  you  if  she  wants  you.  If  you  have  come  to  your  senses 
by  that  time,  as  I  hope  you  will  have,  you  will  get  a  divorce, 
or  go  back  to  Mrs.  Witla,  or  do  whatever  you  do  in  a  sen- 
sible way." 

She  did  not  want  to  incense  Eugene  here,  but  she  was  very 
bitter. 

Eugene  merely  frowned. 

"Is  this  your  decision,  Suzanne,  too?"  he  asked  wearily. 

"I  think  mama  is  terrible,  Eugene,"  replied  Suzanne  eva- 
sively, or  perhaps  as  a  reply  to  her  mother.  "You  and  I  have 
planned  our  lives,  and  we  will  work  them  out.  We  have  been 
a  little  selfish,  now  that  I  think  of  it.  I  think  a  year  won't 
do  any  harm,  perhaps,  if  it  will  stop  all  this  fussing.  I  can 
wait,  if  you  can." 

An  inexpressible  sense  of  despair  fell  upon  Eugene  at  the 
sound  of  this,  a  sadness  so  deep  that  he  could  scarcely  speak. 
He  could  not  believe  that  it  was  really  Suzanne  who  was  saying 
that  to  him.  Willing  to  wait  a  year!  She  who  had  declared  so 
defiantly  that  she  would  not.  It  would  do  no  harm?  To 
think  that  life,  fate,  her  mother  were  triumphing  over  him  in  this 
fashion,  after  all.  What  then  was  the  significance  of  the  black- 
bearded  men  he  had  seen  so  often  of  late?  Why  had  he  been 
finding  horseshoes  ?  Was  fate  such  a  liar  ?  Did  life  in  its  dark, 
subtle  chambers  lay  lures  and  traps  for  men?  His  position  gone, 
his  Blue  Sea  venture  involved  in  an  indefinite  delay  out  of 
which  might  come  nothing,  Suzanne  going  for  a  whole  year, 
perhaps  for  ever,  most  likely  so,  for  what  could  not  her  mother 
do  with  her  in  a  whole  year,  having  her  alone?  Angela  alien- 
ated— a  child  approaching.  What  a  climax! 

"Is  this  really  your  decision,  Suzanne?"  he  asked,  sadly,  a 
mist  of  woe  clouding  his  whole  being. 

"I  think  it  ought  to  be,  perhaps,  Eugene,"  she  replied,  still 


676  THE    "GENIUS  " 

evasively.  "It's  very  trying.  I  will  be  faithful  to  you,  though. 
I  promise  you  that  I  will  not  change.  Don't  you  think  we  can 
wait  a  year?  We  can,  can't  we?" 

"A  whole  year  without  seeing  you,  Suzanne?" 

"Yes,  it  will  pass,  Eugene." 

"A  whole  year?" 

"Yes,  Eugene." 

"I  have  nothing  more  to  say,  Mrs.  Dale,"  he  said,  turning  to 
her  mother  solemnly,  a  sombre,  gloomy  light  in  his  eye,  his 
heart  hardening  towards  Suzanne  for  the  moment.  To  think  she 
should  treat  him  so — throw  him  down,  as  he  phrased  it.  Well, 
such  was  life.  "You  win,"  he  added.  "It  has  been  a  terrible 
experience  for  me.  A  terrible  passion.  I  love  this  girl.  I  love 
her  with  my  whole  heart.  Sometimes  I  have  vaguely  suspected 
that  she  might  not  know." 

He  turned  to  Suzanne,  and  for  the  first  time  he  thought  that 
he  did  not  see  there  that  true  understanding  which  he  had 
fancied  had  been  there  all  the  time.  Could  fate  have  been  lying 
to  him  also  in  this?  Was  he  mistaken  in  this,  and  had  he  been 
following  a  phantom  lure  of  beauty?  Was  Suzanne  but  an- 
other trap  to  drag  him  down  to  his  old  nothingness?  God! 
The  prediction  of  the  Astrologer  of  a  second  period  of  defeat 
after  seven  or  eight  years  came  back. 

"Oh,  Suzanne!"  he  said,  simply  and  unconsciously  dramatic. 
"Do  you  really  love  me?" 

"Yes,  Eugene,"  she  replied. 

"Really?" 

"Yes." 

He  held  out  his  arms  and  she  came,  but  for  the  life  of  him 
he  could  not  dispel  this  terrible  doubt.  It  took  the  joy  out  of 
his  kiss — as  if  he  had  been  dreaming  a  dream  of  something  per- 
fect in  his  arms  and  had  awaked  to  find  it  nothing — as  if  life 
had  sent  him  a  Judas  in  the  shape  of  a  girl  to  betray  him. 

"Do  let  us  end  this,  Mr.  Witla,"  said  Mrs.  Dale  coldly,  "there 
is  nothing  to  be  gained  by  delaying.  Let  us  end  it  for  a  year, 
and  then  talk." 

"Oh,  Suzanne,"  he  continued,  as  mournful  as  a  passing  bell, 
"come  to  the  door  with  me." 

"No,  the  servants  are  there,"  put  in  Mrs.  Dale.  "Please 
make  your  farewells  here." 

"Mama,"  said  Suzanne  angrily  and  defiantly,  moved  by  the 
pity  of  it,  "I  won't  have  you  talk  this  way.  Leave  the  room, 
or  I  shall  go  to  the  door  with  him  and  further.  Leave  us, 
please." 


THE   "GENIUS"  677 

Mrs.  Dale  went  out. 

"Oh,  Flower  Face,"  said  Eugene  pathetically,  "I  can't  believe 
it.  I  can't.  I  can't!  This  has  been  managed  wrong.  I 
should  have  taken  you  long  ago.  So  it  is  to  eixd  this  way.  A 
year,  a  whole  year,  and  how  much  longer?" 

"Only  a  year,"  she  insisted.  "Only  a  year,  believe  me,  can't 
you?  I  won't  change,  I  won't!" 

He  shook  his  head,  and  Suzanne  as  before  took  his  face  in 
her  hands.  She  kissed  his  cheeks,  his  lips,  his  hair. 

"Believe  me,  Eugene.  I  seem  cold.  You  don't  know  what 
I  have  gone  through.  It  is  nothing  but  trouble  everywhere. 
Let  us  wait  a  year.  I  promise  you  I  will  come  to  you.  I  swear. 
One  year.  Can't  we  wait  one  year?" 

"A  year,"  he  said.  "A  year.  I  can't  believe  it.  Where  will 
we  all  be  in  a  year?  Oh,  Flower  Face,  Myrtle  Bloom,  Divine 
Fire.  I  can't  stand  this.  I  can't.  It's  too  much.  I'm  the 
one  who  is  paying  now.  Yes,  I  pay." 

He  took  her  face  and  looked  at  it,  all  its  soft,  enticing 
features,  her  eyes,  her  lips,  her  cheeks,  her  hair. 

"I  thought,  I  thought,"  he  murmured. 

Suzanne  only  stroked  the  back  of  his  head  with  her  hands. 

"Well,  if  I  must,  I  must,"  he  said. 

He  turned  away,  turned  back  to  embrace  her,  turned  again 
and  then,  without  looking  back,  walked  out  into  the  hall.  Mrs. 
Dale  was  there  waiting. 

"Good   night,    Mrs.   Dale,"   he  said   gloomily. 

"Good  night,  Mr.  Witla,"  she  replied  frigidly,  but  with  a 
sense  of  something  tragic  in  her  victory  at  that. 

He  took  his  hat  and  walked  out. 

Outside  the  bright  October  stars  were  in  evidence  by  mil- 
lions. The  Bay  and  Harbor  of  New  York  were  as  wonder- 
fully lit  as  on  that  night  when  Suzanne  came  to  him  after 
the  evening  at  Fort  Wadsworth  on  her  own  porch.  He  re- 
called the  spring  odours,  the  wonderful  feel  of  youth  and  love — 
the  hope  that  was  springing  then.  Now,  it  was  five  or  six  months 
later,  and  all  that  romance  was  gone.  Suzanne,  sweet  voice, 
accomplished  shape,  light  whisper,  delicate  touch.  Gone.  All 
gone — 

"Faded  the  flower  and  all  its  budded  charms, 
Faded  the  sight  of  beauty  from  my  eyes, 
Faded  the  shape  of  beauty  from  my  arms, 
Faded  the  voice,  warmth,  whiteness,  paradise." 

Gone  were  those  bright  days  in  which  they  had  ridden  to- 
gether, dined  together,  walked  in  sylvan  places  beside  their  car. 


678  THE    "GENIUS" 

A  little  way  from  here  he  first  played  tennis  with  her.  A 
little  way  from  here  he  had  come  so  often  to  meet  her  clan- 
destinely. Now  she  was  gone — gone. 

He  had  come  in  his  car,  but  he  really  did  not  want  it.  Life 
was  accursed.  His  own  was  a  failure.  To  think  that  all  his 
fine  dreams  should  crumble  this  way.  Shortly  he  would  have 
no  car,  no  home  on  Riverside  Drive,  no  position,  no  anything. 

"God,  I  can't  stand  this!"  he  exclaimed,  and  a  little  later — 
"By  God,  I  can't!  I  can't!" 

He  dismissed  his  car  at  the  Battery,  telling  his  chauffeur  to 
take  it  to  the  garage,  and  walking  gloomily  through  all  the  tall 
dark  streets  of  lower  New  York.  Here  was  Broadway  where 
he  had  often  been  with  Colfax  and  Winfield.  Here  was  this 
great  world  of  finance  around  Wall  Street  in  which  he  had 
vaguely  hoped  to  shine.  Now  these  buildings  were  high  and 
silent — receding  from  him  in  a  way.  Overhead  were  the  clear 
bright  stars,  cool  and  refreshing,  but  without  meaning  to  him 
now.  How  was  he  to  settle  it?  How  adjust  it?  A  year! 
She  would  never  come  back — never!  It  was  all  gone.  A  bright 
cloud  faded.  A  mirage  dissolved  into  its  native  nothingness. 
Position,  distinction,  love,  home — where  were  they?  Yet  a  little 
while  and  all  these  things  would  be  as  though  they  had  never 
been.  Hell!  Damn!  Curse  the  brooding  fates  that  could  thus 
plot  to  destroy  him ! 

Back  in  her  room  in  Daleview  Suzanne  had  locked  herself 
in.  She  was  not  without  a  growing  sense  of  the  tragedy  of  it. 
She  stared  at  the  floor,  recalled  his  face. 

"Oh,  oh,"  she  said,  and  for  the  first  time  in  her  life  felt 
as  though  she  could  cry  from  a  great  heartache — but  she  could 
not. 

And  in  Riverside  Drive  was  another  woman  brooding,  lonely, 
despondently,  desperately,  over  the  nature  of  the  tragedy  that 
was  upon  her.  How  were  things  to  be  adjusted?  How  was 
she  to  be  saved?  Oh!  oh!  her  life,  her  child!  If  Eugene  could 
be  made  to  understand!  If  he  could  only  be  made  to  see! 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

DURING  the  weeks  which  followed  Colfax's  talk  with  him, 
and  Suzanne's  decision,  which  amounted  practically  to  a 
dismissal,  Eugene  tried  to  wind  up  his  affairs  at  the  United 
Magazines  Corporation,  as  well  as  straighten  out  his  relation- 
ship with  Angela.  It  was  no  easy  task.  Colfax  helped  him 
considerably  by  suggesting  that  he  should  say  he  was  going 
abroad  for  the  company,  for  the  time  being,  and  should  make 
it  appear  imperative  that  he  go  at  once.  Eugene  called  in 
his  department  heads,  and  told  them  what  Colfax  suggested, 
but  added  that  his  own  interests  elsewhere,  of  which  they 
knew,  or  suspected,  were  now  so  involved  that  he  might  pos- 
sibly not  return,  or  only  for  a  little  while  at  best.  He  put  for- 
ward an  air  of  great  sufficiency  and  self-satisfaction,  consider- 
ing the  difficulties  he  was  encountering,  and  the  thing  passed 
off  as  a  great  wonder,  but  with  no  suspicion  of  any  immediate 
misfortune  attaching  to  him.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  it  was  as- 
sumed that  he  was  destined  to  a  much  higher  estate — the  control 
of  his  private  interests. 

In  his  talk  with  Angela  he  made  it  perfectly  plain  that  he  was 
going  to  leave  her.  He  would  not  make  any  pretence  about  this. 
She  ought  to  know.  He  had  lost  his  position ;  he  was  not  going 
to  Suzanne  soon;  he  wanted  her  to  leave  him,  or  he  would 
leave  her.  She  should  go  to  Wisconsin  or  Europe  or  any- 
where, for  the  time  being,  and  leave  him  to  fight  this  thing  out 
alone.  He  was  not  indispensable  to  her  in  her  condition. 
There  were  nurses  she  could  hire — maternity  hospitals  where 
she  could  stay.  He  would  be  willing  to  pay  for  that.  He 
would  never  live  with  her  any  more,  if  he  could  help  it — he 
did  not  want  to.  The  sight  of  her  in  the  face  of  his  longing 
for  Suzanne  would  be  a  wretched  commentary — a  reproach 
and  a  sore  shame.  No,  he  would  leave  her  and  perhaps,  pos- 
sibly, sometime  when  she  obtained  more  real  fighting  courage, 
Suzanne  might  come  to  him.  She  ought  to.  Angela  might 
die.  Yes,  brutal  as  it  may  seem,  he  thought  this.  She  might 

die,  and  then — and  then No  thought  of  the  child  that 

might  possibly  live,  even  if  she  died,  held  him.  He  could  not 
understand  that,  could  not  grasp  it  as  yet.  It  was  a  mere  ab- 
straction. 

Eugene  took  a  room  in  an  apartment  house  in  Kingsbridge, 

679 


68o  THE    "GENIUS" 

where  he  was  not  known  for  the  time  being,  and  where  he  was 
not  likely  to  be  seen.  Then  there  was  witnessed  that  dreary 
spectacle  of  a  man  whose  life  has  apparently  come  down  in  a 
heap,  whose  notions,  emotions,  tendencies  and  feelings  are  con- 
fused and  disappointed  by  some  untoward  result.  If  Eugene  had 
been  ten  or  fifteen  years  older,  the  result  might  have  been  sui- 
cide. A  shade  of  difference  in  temperament  might  have  resulted 
in  death,  murder,  anything.  As  it  was,  he  sat  blankly  at  times 
among  the  ruins  of  his  dreams  speculating  on  what  Suzanne  was 
doing,  on  what  Angela  was  doing,  on  what  people  were  saying 
and  thinking,  on  how  he  could  gather  up  the  broken  pieces  of 
his  life  and  make  anything  out  of  them  at  all. 

The  one  saving  element  in  it  all  was  his  natural  desire  to 
work,  which,  although  it  did  not  manifest  itself  at  first,  by 
degrees  later  on  began  to  come  back.  He  must  do  something,' 
if  it  was  not  anything  more  than  to  try  to  paint  again.  He 
could  not  be  running  around  looking  for  a  position.  There  was 
nothing  for  him  in  connection  with  Blue  Sea.  He  had  to  work 
to  support  Angela,  of  whom  he  was  now  free,  if  he  did  not  want 
to  be  mean;  and  as  he  viewed  it  all  in  the  light  of  what  had 
happened,  he  realized  that  he  had  been  bad  enough.  She  had 
not  been  temperamentally  suited  to  him,  but  she  had  tried  to  be. 
Fundamentally  it  was  not  her  fault.  How  was  he  to  work  and 
live  and  be  anything  at  all  from  now  on? 

There  were  long  arguments  over  this  situation  between  him 
and  Angela — pleas,  tears,  a  crashing  downward  of  everything 
which  was  worth  while  in  life  to  Angela,  and  then,  in  spite  of 
her  pathetic  situation,  separation.  Because  it  was  November 
and  the  landlord  had  heard  of  Eugene's  financial  straits,  or 
rather  reverse  of  fortune,  it  was  possible  to  relinquish  the 
lease,  which  had  several  years  to  run,  and  the  apartment  was 
given  up.  Angela,  distraught,  scarcely  knew  which  way  to 
turn.  It  was  one  of  those  pitiless,  scandalous  situations  in  life 
which  sicken  us  of  humanity.  She  ran  helplessly  to  Eugene's 
sister,  Myrtle,  who  first  tried  to  conceal  the  scandal  and  tragedy 
from  her  husband,  but  afterward  confessed  and  deliberated  as 
to  what  should  be  done.  Frank  Bangs,  who  was  a  practical 
man,  as  well  as  firm  believer  in  Christian  Science  because  of  his 
wife's  to  him  miraculous  healing  from  a  tumor  several  years 
before,  endeavored  to  apply  his  understanding  of  the  divine 
science — the  omnipresence  of  good  to  this  situation. 

"There  is  no  use  worrying  about  it,  Myrtle,"  he  said  to  his 
wife,  who,  in  spite  of  her  faith,  was  temporarily  shaken  and 
frightened  by  the  calamities  which  seemingly  had  overtaken 


THE    "  GENIUS'1  681 

her  brother.  "It's  another  evidence  of  the  workings  of  mortal 
mind.  It  is  real  enough  in  its  idea  of  itself,  but  nothing  in 
God's  grace.  It  will  come  out  all  right,  if  we  think  right. 
Angela  can  go  to  a  maternity  hospital  for  the  time  being,  or 
whenever  she's  ready.  We  may  be  able  to  persuade  Eugene  to 
do  the  right  thing." 

Angela  was  persuaded  to  consult  a  Christian  Science  prac- 
titioner, and  Myrtle  went  to  the  woman  who  had  cured  her 
and  begged  her  to  use  her  influence,  or  rather  her  knowledge 
of  science  to  effect  a  rehabilitation  for  her  brother.  She  was  told 
that  this  could  not  be  done  without  his  wish,  but  that  she  would 
pray  for  him.  If  he  could  be  persuaded  to  come  of  his  own 
accord,  seeking  spiritual  guidance  or  divine  aid,  it  would  be  a 
different  matter.  In  spite  of  his  errors,  and  to  her  they  seemed 
palpable  and  terrible  enough  at  present,  her  faith  would  not 
allow  her  to  reproach  him,  and  besides  she  loved  him.  He  was 
a  strong  man,  she  said,  always  strange.  He  and  Angela  might 
not  have  been  well  mated.  But  all  could  be  righted  in  Science. 
There  was  a  dreary  period  of  packing  and  storing  for  Angela', 
in  which  she  stood  about  amid  the  ruins  of  her  previous  comfort 
and  distinction  and  cried  over  the  things  that  had  seemed  so 
lovely  to  her.  Here  were  all  Eugene's  things,  his  paintings, 
his  canes,  his  pipes,  his  clothes.  She  cried  over  a  handsome 
silk  dressing  gown  in  which  he  had  been  wont  to  lounge  about — 
it  smacked  so  much,  curiously,  of  older  and  happier  days.  There 
were  hard,  cold  and  determined  conferences  also  in  which  some 
of  Angela's  old  fighting,  ruling  spirit  would  come  back,  but  not 
for  long.  She  was  beaten  now,  and  she  knew  it — wrecked. 
The  roar  of  a  cold  and  threatening  sea  was  in  her  ears. 

It  should  be  said  here  that  at  one  time  Suzanne  truly  imagined 
she  loved  Eugene.  It  must  be  remembered,  however,  that  she 
was  moved  to  affection  for  him  by  the  wonder  of  a  personality 
that  was  hypnotic  to  her.  There  was  something  about  the  per- 
sonality of  Eugene  that  was  subversive  of  conventionality.  He 
approached,  apparently  a  lamb  of  conventional  feelings  and  ap- 
pearances; whereas,  inwardly,  he  was  a  ravening  wolf  of  indif- 
ference to  convention.  All  the  organized  modes  and  methods 
of  life  were  a  joke  to  him.  He  saw  through  to  something  that 
was  not  material  life  at  all,  but  spiritual,  or  say  immaterial,  of 
which  all  material  things  were  a  shadow.  What  did  the  great 
forces  of  life  care  whether  this  system  which  was  maintained  here 
with  so  much  show  and  fuss  was  really  maintained  at  all  or  not  ? 
How  could  they  care  ?  He  once  stood  in  a  morgue  and  saw  hu- 
man bodies  apparently  dissolving  into  a  kind  of  chemical  mush^ 


682  THE   "  GENIUS'3 

and  he  had  said  to  himself  then  how  ridiculous  it  was  to  assume 
that  life  meant  anything  much  to  the  forces  which  were  doing 
these  things.  Great  chemical  and  physical  forces  were  at  work, 
which  permitted,  accidentally,  perhaps,  some  little  shadow-play, 
which  would  soon  pass.  But,  oh,  its  presence — how  sweet  it 
was! 

Naturally  Suzanne  was  cast  down  for  the  time  being,  for  she 
was  capable  of  suffering  just  as  Eugene  was.  But  having  given 
her  word  to  wait,  she  decided  to  stick  to  that,  although  she  had 
not  stuck  to  her  other.  She  was  between  nineteen  and  twenty 
now — Eugene  was  nearing  forty.  Life  could  still  soothe  her  in 
spite  of  herself.  In  Eugene's  case  it  could  only  hurt  the  more.  Mrs. 
Dale  went  abroad  with  Suzanne  and  the  other  children,  visiting 
with  people  who  could  not  possibly  have  heard,  or  ever  would 
except  in  a  vague,  uncertain  way  for  that  matter.  If  it  became 
evident,  as  she  thought  it  might,  that  there  was  to  be  a  scandal, 
Mrs.  Dale  proposed  to  say  that  Eugene  had  attempted  to  es- 
tablish an  insidious  hold  on  her  child  in  defiance  of  reason  and 
honor,  and  that  she  had  promptly  broken  it  up,  shielding  Su- 
zanne, almost  without  the  latter 's  knowledge.  It  was  plausible 
enough. 

What  was  he  to  do  now?  how  live?  was  his  constant  thought. 
Go  into  a  wee,  small  apartment  in  some  back  street  with  Angela, 
where  he  and  she,  if  he  decided  to  stay  with  her,  could  find  a 
pretty  outlook  for  a  little  money  and  live?  Never.  Admit  that 
he  had  lost  Suzanne  for  a  year  at  least,  if  not  permanently,  in 
this  suddenly  brusque  way?  Impossible.  Go  and  confess  that 
he  had  made  a  mistake,  which  he  still  did  not  feel  to  be  true? 
or  that  he  was  sorry  and  would  like  to  patch  things  up  as  be- 
fore? Never.  He  was  not  sorry.  He  did  not  propose  to  live 
with  Angela  in  the  old  way  any  more.  He  was  sick  of  her, 
or  rather  of  that  atmosphere  of  repression  and  convention  in 
which  he  had  spent  so  many  years.  He  was  sick  of  the  idea 
of  having  a  child  thrust  on  him  against  his  will.  He  would 
not  do  it.  She  had  no  business  to  put  herself  in  this  position. 
He  would  die  first.  His  insurance  was  paid  up  to  date.  He 
had  carried  during  the  last  five  years  a  policy  for  something 
over  eighteen  thousand  in  her  favor,  and  if  he  died  she  would 
get  that.  He  wished  he  might.  It  would  be  some  atonement 
for  the  hard  knocks  which  fate  had  recently  given  her,  but  he 
did  not  wish  to  live  with  her  any  more.  Never,  never,  child  or 
no  child.  Go  back  to  the  apartment  after  this  night — how 
could  he?  If  he  did,  he  must  pretend  that  nothing  had  hap- 
pened— at  least,  nothing  untoward  between  him  and  Suzanne. 


THE   "GENIUS"  683 

She  might  come  back.  Might!  Might!  Ah,  the  mockery  of 
it — to  leave  him  in  this  way  when  she  really  could  have  come 
to  him — should  have — oh,  the  bitterness  of  this  thrust  of  fate! 

There  was  a  day  when  the  furniture  was  sent  away  and 
Angela  went  to  live  with  Myrtle  for  the  time  being.  There 
was  another  tearful  hour  when  she  left  New  York  to  visit  her 
sister  Marietta  at  Racine,  where  they  now  were,  intending  to 
tell  her  before  she  came  away,  as  a  profound  secret,  the  terrible 
tragedy  which  had  overtaken  her.  Eugene  went  to  the  train 
with  her,  but  with  no  desire  to  be  there.  Angela's  one  thought, 
in  all  this,  was  that  somehow  time  would  effect  a  reconcilia- 
tion. If  she  could  just  wait  long  enough;  if  she  could  keep 
her  peace  and  live  and  not  die,  and  not  give  him  a  divorce,  he 
might  eventually  recover  his  sanity  and  come  to  think  of  her  as 
at  least  worth  living  with.  The  child  might  do  it,  its  coming 
would  be  something  that  would  affect  him  surely.  He  was 
bound  to  see  her  through  it.  She  told  herself  she  was  willing 
and  delighted  to  go  through  this  ordeal,  if  only  it  brought  him 
back  to  her.  This  child — what  a  reception  it  was  to  receive, 
unwanted,  dishonored  before  its  arrival,  ignored;  if  by  any 
chance  she  should  die,  what  would  he  do  about  it?  Surely  he 
would  not  desert  it.  Already  in  her  nervous,  melancholy  way, 
she  was  yearning  toward  it. 

"Tell  me,"  she  said  to  Eugene  one  day,  when  they  were  alter- 
nately quarreling  and  planning,  "if  the  baby  comes,  and  I — and 
I — die,  you  won't  absolutely  desert  it?  You'll  take  it,  won't 
you?" 

"I'll  take  it,"  he  replied.  "Don't  worry.  I'm  not  an  abso- 
lute dog.  I  didn't  want  it.  It's  a  trick  on  your  part,  but  I'fl 
take  it.  I  don't  want  you  to  die.  You  know  that." 

Angela  thought  if  she  lived  that  she  would  be  willing  to  go 
through  a  period  of  poverty  and  depression  with  him  again,  if 
only  she  could  live  to  see  him  sane  and  moral  and  even  semi-suc- 
cessful. The  baby  might  do  it.  He  had  never  had  a  child. 
And  much  as  he  disliked  the  idea  now,  still,  when  it  was  here, 
he  might  change  his  mind.  If  only  she  could  get  through  that 
ordeal.  She  was  so  old — her  muscles  so  set.  Meanwhile  she 
consulted  a  lawyer,  a  doctor,  a  fortune  teller,  an  astrologer  and 
the  Christian  Science  practitioner  to  whom  Myrtle  had  recom- 
mended her.  It  was  an  aimless,  ridiculous  combination,  but  she 
was  badly  torn  up,  and  any  port  seemed  worth  while  in  this 
storm. 

The  doctor  told  her  that  her  muscles  were  rather  set,  but 
with  the  regimen  he  prescribed,  he  was  satisfied  she  would  be 


684  THE    "GENIUS" 

all  right.  The  astrologer  told  her  that  she  and  Eugene  were 
fated  for  this  storm  by  the  stars — Eugene,  particularly,  and  that 
he  might  recover,  in  which  case,  he  would  be  successful  again 
in  a  measure.  As  for  herself,  he  shook  his  head.  Yes,  she  would 
be  all  right.  He  was  lying.  The  fortune  teller  laid  the  cards 
to  see  if  Eugene  would  ever  marry  Suzanne,  and  Angela  was 
momentarily  gratified  to  learn  that  she  would  never  enter  his 
life — this  from  a  semi-cadaverous,  but  richly  dressed  and  be- 
jeweled  lady  whose  ante-room  was  filled  with  women  whose 
troubles  were  of  the  heart,  the  loss  of  money,  the  enmity  of 
rivals,  or  the  dangers  of  childbirth.  The  Christian  Science  prac- 
titioner declared  all  to  be  divine  mind — omnipotent,  omnipresent,; 
omniscient  good,  and  that  evil  could  not  exist  in  it — only  the 
illusion  of  it.  "It  is  real  enough  to  those  who  give  it  their 
faith  and  believe,"  said  the  counselor,  "but  without  substance 
or  meaning  to  those  who  know  themselves  to  be  a  perfect,  in- 
destructible reflection  of  an  idea  in  God.  God  is  a  principle. 
When  the  nature  of  that  principle  is  realized  and  yourself  as 
a  part  of  it,  evil  falls  away  as  the  troublesome  dream  that  it 
is.  It  has  no  reality."  She  assured  her  that  no  evil  could  be- 
fall her  in  the  true  understanding  of  Science.  God  is  love. 

The  lawyer  told  her,  after  listening  to  a  heated  story  of  Eu- 
gene's misconduct,  that  under  the  laws  of  the  State  of  New 
York,  in  which  these  misdeeds  were  committed,  she  was  not  en- 
titled to  anything  more  than  a  very  small  fraction  of  her  hus- 
band's estate,  if  he  had  any.  Two  years  was  the  shortest  time 
in  which  a  divorce  could  be  secured.  He  would  advise  her  to 
sue  if  she  could  establish  a  suitable  condition  of  affluence  on 
Eugene's  part,  not  otherwise.  Then  he  charged  her  twenty- 
five  dollars  for  this  advice. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

TO  those  who  have  followed  a  routine  or  system  of  living  in 
this  world — who  have,  by  slow  degrees  and  persistent  ef- 
fort, built  up  a  series  of  habits,  tastes,  refinements,  emotions  and 
methods  of  conduct,  and  have,  in  addition,  achieved  a  certain 
distinction  and  position,  so  that  they  have  said  to  one  "Go !"  and 
he  goes,  and  to  another  "Come!"  and  he  comes,  who  have  en- 
joyed without  stint  or  reserve,  let  or  hindrance,  those  joys  of 
perfect  freedom  of  action,  and  that  ease  and  deliberation  which 
comes  with  the  presence  of  comparative  wealth,  social  position, 
and  comforts,  the  narrowing  that  comes  with  the  lack  of  means, 
the  fear  of  public  opinion,  or  the  shame  of  public  disclosure,  is 
one  of  the  most  pathetic,  discouraging  and  terrifying  things  that 
can  be  imagined.  These  are  the  hours  that  try  men's  souls. 
The  man  who  sits  in  a  seat  of  the  mighty  and  observes  a  world 
that  is  ruled  by  a  superior  power,  a  superior  force  of  which  he 
by  some  miraculous  generosity  of  fate  has  been  chosen  apparently 
as  a  glittering  instrument,  has  no  conception  of  the  feelings  of 
the  man  who,  cast  out  of  his  dignities  and  emoluments,  sits  in 
the  dark  places  of  the  world  among  the  ashes  of  his  splendor 
and  meditates  upon  the  glory  of  his  bygone  days.  There  is  a 
pathos  here  which  passes  the  conception  of  the  average  man. 
The  prophets  of  the  Old  Testament  discerned  it  clearly  enough, 
for  they  were  forever  pronouncing  the  fate  of  those  whose  fol- 
lies were  in  opposition  to  the  course  of  righteousness  and  who 
were  made  examples  of  by  a  beneficent  and  yet  awful  power. 
"Thus  saith  the  Lord:  Because  thou  hast  lifted  thyself  up 
against  the  God  of  Heaven,  and  they  have  brought  the  vessels 
of  His  house  before  thee,  and  thou  and  thy  Lords,  thy  wives 
and  concubines,  have  drank  wine  in  them,  and  thou  hast  praised 
the  gods  of  silver  and  gold,  of  brass,  iron,  wood,  and  stone. 
.  .  .  God  hath  numbered  thy  Kingdom  and  finished  it.  Thou 
art  weighed  in  the  balance  and  found  wanting;  thy  Kingdom  is 
divided  and  given  to  the  Medes  and  the  Persians." 

Eugene  was  in  a  minor  way  an  exemplification  of  this  seem- 
ing course  of  righteousness.  His  Kingdom,  small  as  it  was,  was 
truly  at  an  end.  Our  social  life  is  so  organized,  so  closely  knit 
upon  a  warp  of  instinct,  that  we  almost  always  instinctively  flee 
that  which  does  not  accord  with  custom,  usage,  preconceived 
notions  and  tendencies — those  various  things  which  we  in  our 

685 


686  THE   "GENIUS" 

littleness  of  vision  conceive  to  be  dominant.  Who  does  not  run 
from  the  man  who  may  because  of  his  deeds  be  condemned  of 
that  portion  of  the  public  which  we  chance  to  respect?  Walk 
he  ever  so  proudly,  carry  himself  with  what  circumspectness  he 
may,  at  the  first  breath  of  suspicion  all  are  off — friends,  rela- 
tions, business  acquaintances,  the  whole  social  fabric  in  toto. 
"Unclean!"  is  the  cry.  "Unclean!  Unclean!"  And  it  does 
not  matter  how  inwardly  shabby  we  may  be,  what  whited  sepul- 
chres shining  to  the  sun,  we  run  quickly.  It  seems  a  tribute 
to  that  providence  which  shapes  our  ends,  which  continues  per- 
fect in  tendency  however  vilely  wre  may  overlay  its  brightness 
with  the  rust  of  our  mortal  corruption,  however  imitative  we 
may  be. 

Angela  had  gone  home  by  now  to  see  her  father,  who  was  now 
quite  old  and  feeble,  and  also  down  to  Alexandria  to  see  Eugene's 
mother,  who  was  also  badly  deteriorated  in  health. 

"I  keep  hoping  against  hope  that  your  attitude  will  change 
toward  me,"  wrote  Angela.  "Let  me  hear  from  you  if 
you  will  from  time  to  time.  It  can't  make  any  difference  in 
your  course.  A  word  won't  hurt,  and  I  am  so  lonely.  Oh, 
Eugene,  if  I  could  only  die — if  I  only  could!"  No  word 
as  to  the  true  state  of  things  was  given  at  either  place.  Angela 
pretended  that  Eugene  had  long  been  sick  of  his  commercial 
career  and  was,  owing  to  untoward  conditions  in  the  Colfax 
Company,  glad  to  return  to  his  art  for  a  period.  He  might 
come  home,  but  he  was  very  busy.  So  she  lied.  But  she  wrote 
Myrtle  fully  of  her  hopes  and,  more  particularly,  her  fears. 

There  were  a  number  of  conferences  between  Eugene  and 
Myrtle,  for  the  latter,  because  of  their  early  companionship, 
was  very  fond  of  him.  His  traits,  the  innocent  ones,  were  as 
sweet  to  her  as  when  they  were  boy  and  girl  together.  She 
sought  him  out  in  his  lovely  room  at  Kingsbridge. 

"Why  don't  you  come  and  stay  with  us,  Eugene?"  she 
pleaded.  "We  have  a  comfortable  apartment.  You  can  have 
that  big  room  next  to  ours.  It  has  a  nice  view.  Frank  likes 
you.  We  have  listened  to  Angela,  and  I  think  you  are  wrong, 
but  you  are  my  brother,  and  I  want  you  to  come.  Everything 
is  coming  out  right.  God  will  straighten  it  out.  Frank  and  I 
are  praying  for  you.  There  is  no  evil,  you  know,  according  to 
the  way  we  think.  Now" — and  she  smiled  her  old-time  girlish 
smile — "don't  stay  up  here  alone.  Wouldn't  you  rather  be 
with  me?" 

"Oh,  I'd  like  to  be  there  well  enough,  Myrtle,  but  I  can't  do 
it  now.  I  don't  want  to.  I  have  to  think.  I  want  to  be  alone. 


THE    "GENIUS"  687 

I  haven't  settled  what  I  want  to  do.  I  think  I  will  try  my 
hand  at  some  pictures.  I  have  a  little  money  and  all  the  time 
I  want  now.  I  see  there  are  some  nice  houses  over  there  on 
the  hill  that  might  have  a  room  with  a  north  window  that  would 
serve  as  a  studio.  I  want  to  think  this  thing  out  first.  I  don't 
know  what  I'll  do." 

He  had  now  that  new  pain  in  his  groin,  which  had  come  to 
him  first  when  her  mother  first  carried  Suzanne  off  to  Canada 
and  he  was  afraid  that  he  should  never  see  her  any  more.  It 
was  a  real  pain,  sharp,  physical,  like  a  cut  with  a  knife.  He 
wondered  how  it  was  that  it  could  be  physical  and  down  there. 
His  eyes  hurt  him  and  his  finger  tips.  Wasn't  that  queer,  too? 

"Why  don't  you  go  and  see  a  Christian  Science  practitioner?" 
asked  Myrtle.  "It  won't  do  you  any  harm.  You  don't  need 
to  believe.  Let  me  get  you  the  book  and  you  can  read  it.  See 
if  you  don't  think  there  is  something  in  it.  There  you  go  smil- 
ing sarcastically,  but,  Eugene,  I  can't  tell  you  what  it  hasn't 
done  for  us.  It's  done  everything — that's  just  all.  I'm  a  dif- 
ferent person  from  what  I  was  five  years  ago,  and  so  is  Frank. 
You  know  how  sick  I  was?" 

"Yes,  I  know." 

"Why  don't  you  go  and  see  Mrs.  Johns?  You  needn't  tell 
her  anything  unless  you  want  to.  She  has  performed  some  per- 
fectly wonderful  cures." 

"What  can  Mrs.  Johns  do  for  me?"  asked  Eugene  bitterly, 
his  lip  set  in  an  ironic  mould.  "Cure  me  of  gloom?  Make  my 
heart  cease  to  ache?  What's  the  use  of  talking?  I  ought  to 
quit  the  whole  thing."  He  stared  at  the  floor. 

"She  can't,  but  God  can.  Oh,  Eugene,  I  know  how  you  feel  I 
Please  go.  It  can't  do  you  any  harm.  I'll  bring  you  the  book 
tomorrow.  Will  you  read  it  if  I  bring  it  to  you?" 

"No." 

"Oh,  Eugene,  please  for  my  sake." 

"What  good  will  it  do  ?  I  don't  believe  in  it.  I  can't.  I'm 
too  intelligent  to  take  any  stock  in  that  rot." 

"Eugene,  how  you  talk !  You'll  change  your  mind  some  time. 
I  know  how  you  think.  But  read  it  anyhow.  Will  you  please? 
Promise  me  you  will.  I  shouldn't  ask.  It  isn't  the  way,  but  I 
want  you  to  look  into  it.  Go  and  see  Mrs.  Johns." 

Eugene  refused.  Of  asinine  things  this  seemed  the  silliest. 
Christian  Science!  Christian  rot!  He  knew  what  to  do.  His 
conscience  was  dictating  that  he  give  up  Suzanne  and  return  to 
Angela  in  her  hour  of  need — to  his  coming  child,  for  the  time 
being  anyhow,  but  this  awful  lure  of  beauty,  of  personality,  of 


688  THE   "  GENIUS  " 

love — how  it  tugged  at  his  soul !  Oh,  those  days  with  Suzanne 
in  the  pretty  watering  and  dining  places  about  New  York,  those 
hours  of  bliss  when  she  looked  so  beautiful !  How  could  he  get 
over  that  ?  How  give  up  the  memory  ?  She  was  so  sweet.  Her 
beauty  so  rare.  Every  thought  of  her  hurt.  It  hurt  so  badly 
that  most  of  the  time  he  dared  not  think — must,  perforce,  walk 
or  work  or  stir  restlessly  about  agonized  for  fear  he  should 
think  too  much.  Oh,  life;  oh,  hell! 

The  intrusion  of  Christian  Science  into  his  purview  just  now 
was  due,  of  course,  to  the  belief  in  and  enthusiasm  for  that 
religious  idea  on  the  part  of  Myrtle  and  her  husband.  As  at 
Lourdes  and  St.  Anne  de  Beau  Pre  and  other  miracle-working 
centres,  where  hope  and  desire  and  religious  enthusiasm  for  the 
efficacious  intervention  of  a  superior  and  non-malicious  force 
intervenes,  there  had  occurred  in  her  case  an  actual  cure  from  a 
very  difficult  and  compliated  physical  ailment.  She  had  been 
suffering  from  a  tumor,  nervous  insomnia,  indigestion,  constipa- 
tion and  a  host  of  allied  ills,  which  had  apparently  refused  to 
yield  to  ordinary  medical  treatment.  She  was  in  a  very  bad  way 
mentally  and  physically  at  the  time  the  Christian  Science  text- 
book, "Science  and  Health,  with  Key  to  the  Scriptures,"  by  Mrs. 
Eddy,  was  put  into  her  hands.  While  attempting  to  read  it  in 
a  hopeless,  helpless  spirit,  she  was  instantly  cured — that  is,  the 
idea  that  she  was  well  took  possession  of  her,  and  not  long  after 
she  really  was  so.  She  threw  all  her  medicines,  of  which  there 
was  quite  a  store,  into  the  garbage  pail,  eschewed  doctors,  be- 
gan to  read  the  Christian  Science  literature,  and  attend  the 
Christian  Science  church  nearest  her  apartment,  and  was  soon 
involved  in  its  subtle  metaphysical  interpretation  of  mortal  life. 
Into  this  faith,  her  husband,  who  loved  her  very  much,  had 
followed,  for  what  was  good  enough  for  her  and  would  cure 
her  was  good  enough  for  him.  He  soon  seized  on  its  spiritual 
significance  with  great  vigor  and  became,  if  anything,  a  better 
exponent  and  interpreter  of  the  significant  thought  than  was  she 
herself. 

Those  who  know  anything  of  Christian  Science  know  that  its 
main  tenet  is  that  God  is  a  principle,  not  a  personality  under- 
standable or  conceivable  from  the  mortal  or  sensory  side  of  life 
(which  latter  is  an  illusion),  and  that  man  (spiritually  speaking) 
in  His  image  and  likeness.  Man  is  not  God  or  any  part  of  Him. 
He  is  an  idea  in  God,  and,  as  such,  as  perfect  and  indestructible 
and  undisturbably  harmonious  as  an  idea  in  God  or  principle 
must  be.  To  those  not  metaphysically  inclined,  this  is  usually 
dark  and  without  significance,  but  to  those  spiritually  or  meta- 


THE    "GENIUS"  689 

physically  minded  it  comes  as  a  great  light.  Matter  becomes  a 
built-up  set  or  combination  of  illusions,  which  may  have  evolved 
or  not  as  one  chooses,  but  which  unquestionably  have  been  built 
up  from  nothing  or  an  invisible,  intangible  idea,  and  have  no 
significance  beyond  the  faith  or  credence,  which  those  who  are  at 
base  spiritual  give  them.  Deny  them — know  them  to  be  what 
they  are — and  they  are  gone. 

To  Eugene,  who  at  this  time  was  in  a  great  state  of  mental 
doldrums — blue,  dispirited,  disheartened,  inclined  to  see  only 
evil  and  destructive  forces — this  might  well  come  with  peculiar 
significance,  if  it  came  at  all.  He  was  one  of  those  men  who 
from  their  birth  are  metaphysically  inclined.  All  his  life  he 
had  been  speculating  on  the  subtleties  of  mortal  existence,  read- 
ing Spencer,  Kant,  Spinoza,  at  odd  moments,  and  particularly 
such  men  as  Darwin,  Huxley,  Tyndall,  Lord  Avebury,  Alfred 
Russel  Wallace,  and  latterly  Sir  Oliver  Lodge  and  Sir  William 
Crookes,  trying  to  find  out  by  the  inductive,  naturalistic  method 
just  what  life  was.  He  had  secured  inklings  at  times,  he  thought, 
by  reading  such  things  as  Emerson's  "Oversoul,"  "The  Medita- 
tions of  Marcus  Aurelius,"  and  Plato.  God  was  a  spirit,  he 
thought,  as  Christ  had  said  to  the  woman  at  the  well  in  Sa- 
maria, but  whether  this  spirit  concerned  itself  with  mortal  af- 
fairs, where  was  so  much  suffering  and  contention,  was  another 
matter.  Personally  he  had  never  believed  so — or  been  at  all 
sure.  He  had  always  been  moved  by  the  Sermon  on  the  Mount ; 
the  beauty  of  Christ's  attitude  toward  the  troubles  of  the  world, 
the  wonder  of  the  faith  of  the  old  prophets  in  insisting  that  God 
is  God,  that  there  are  no  other  Gods  before  him,  and  that  he 
would  repay  iniquity  with  disfavor.  Whether  he  did  or  not  was 
an  open  question  with  him.  This  question  of  sin  had  always 
puzzled  him — original  sin.  Were  there  laws  which  ante-dated 
human  experience,  which  were  in  God — The  Word — before  it 
was  made  flesh?  If  so,  what  were  these  laws?  Did  they  con- 
cern matrimony — some  spiritual  union  which  was  older  than 
life  itself?  Did  they  concern  stealing?  What  was  stealing 
outside  of  life?  Where  was  it  before  man  began?  Or  did  it 
only  begin  with  man?  Ridiculous!  It  must  relate  to  some- 
thing in  chemistry  and  physics,  which  had  worked  out  in  life.  A 
sociologist — a  great  professor  in  one  of  the  colleges — had  once 
told  him  that  he  did  not  believe  in  success  or  failure,  sin,  or  a 
sense  of  self-righteousness  except  as  they  were  related  to  built-up 
instincts  in  the  race — instincts  related  solely  to  the  self-preser- 
vation and  the  evolution  of  the  race.  Beyond  that  was  nothing. 
Spiritual  morality?  Bah!  He  knew  nothing  about  it. 


690  THE    "GENIUS' ! 

Such  rank  agnosticism  could  not  but  have  had  its  weight  with 
Eugene.  He  was  a  doubter  ever.  All  life,  as  I  have  said  before, 
went  to  pieces  under  his  scalpel,  and  he  could  not  put  it  to- 
gether again  logically,  once  he  had  it  cut  up.  People  talked 
about  the  sanctity  of  marriage,  but,  heavens,  marriage  was  an 
evolution!  He  knew  that.  Someone  had  written  a  two-volume 
treatise  on  it — "The  History  of  Human  Marriage,"  or  some- 
thing like  that — and  in  it  animals  were  shown  to  have  mated 
only  for  so  long  as  it  took  to  rear  the  young,  to  get  them  to  the 
point  at  which  they  could  take  care  of  themselves.  And  wasn't 
this  really  what  was  at  the  basis  of  modern  marriage?  He  had 
read  in  this  history,  if  he  recalled  aright,  that  the  only  reason 
marriage  had  come  to  be  looked  upon  as  sacred,  and  for  life, 
was  the  length  of  time  it  took  to  rear  the  human  young.  It  took 
so  long  that  the  parents  were  old,  safely  so,  before  the  children 
were  launched  into  the  world.  Then  why  separate? 

But  it  was  the  duty  of  everybody  to  raise  children. 

Ah!  there  had  been  the  trouble.  He  had  been  bothered  by 
that.  The  home  centered  around  that.  Children !  Race  repro- 
duction! Pulling  this  wagon  of  evolution!  Was  every  man 
who  did  not  inevitably  damned?  Was  the  race  spirit  against 
him?  Look  at  the  men  and  women  who  didn't — who  couldn't. 
Thousands  and  thousands.  And  those  who  did  always  thought 
those  wrho  didn't  were  wrong.  The  whole  American  spirit  he 
had  always  felt  to  be  intensely  set  in  this  direction — the  idea  of 
having  children  and  rearing  them,  a  conservative  work-a-day 
spirit.  Look  at  his  father.  And  yet  other  men  were  so  shrewd 
that  they  preyed  on  this  spirit,  moving  factories  to  where  this 
race  spirit  was  the  most  active,  so  that  they  could  hire  the  chil- 
dren cheaply,  and  nothing  happened  to  them,  or  did  something 
happen  ? 

However,  Myrtle  continued  to  plead  with  him  to  look  into 
this  new  interpretation  of  the  Scriptures,  claiming  that  it  was 
true,  that  it  would  bring  him  into  an  understanding  of  spirit 
which  would  drive  away  all  these  mortal  ills,  that  it  was  above 
all  mortal  conception — spiritual  over  all,  and  so  he  thought 
about  that.  She  told  him  that  if  it  was  right  that  he  should 
cease  to  live  with  Angela,  it  would  come  to  pass,  and  that  if  it 
was  not,  it  wrould  not;  but  anyhow  and  in  any  event  in  this 
truth  there  would  be  peace  and  happiness  to  him.  He  should 
do  what  was  right  ("seek  ye  first  the  Kingdom  of  God"),  and 
then  all  these  things  would  be  added  unto  him. 

And  it  seemed  terribly  silly  at  first  to  Eugene  for  him  to  be 
listening  at  all  to  any  such  talk,  but  later  it  was  not  so  much 


THE    '"GENIUS"  691 

so.  There  were  long  arguments  and  appeals,  breakfast  and 
dinner,  or  Sunday  dinners  at  Myrtle's  apartment,  arguments 
with  Bangs  and  Myrtle  concerning  every  phase  of  the  Science 
teaching,  some  visits  to  the  Wednesday  experience  and  testi- 
mony meetings  of  their  church,  at  which  Eugene  heard  state- 
ments concerning  marvelous  cures  which  he  could  scarely  be- 
lieve, and  so  on.  So  long  as  the  testimonies  confined  themselves 
to  complaints  which  might  be  due  to  nervous  imagination,  he  was 
satisfied  that  their  cures  were  possibly  due  to  religious  enthusi- 
asm, which  dispelled  their  belief  in  something  which  they  did 
not  have,  but  when  they  were  cured  of  cancer,  consumption, 
locomotor-ataxia,  goitres,  shortened  limbs,  hernia — he  did  not 
wish  to  say  they  were  liars,  they  seemed  too  sincere  to  do  that, 
but  he  fancied  they  were  simply  mistaken.  How  could  they,  or 
this  belief,  or  whatever  it  was,  cure  cancer?  Good  Lord!  He 
went  on  disbelieving  in  this  way,  and  refusing  also  to  read  the 
book  until  one  Wednesday  evening  when  he  happened  to  be  at 
the  Fourth  Church  of  Christ  Scientist  in  New  York  that  a  man 
stood  up  beside  him  in  his  own  pew  and  said: 

"I  wish  to  testify  to  the  love  and  mercy  of  God  in  my  case, 
for  I  was  hopelessly  afflicted  not  so  very  long  ago  and  one  of 
the  vilest  men  I  think  it  is  possible  to  be.  I  was  raised  in  a 
family  where  the  Bible  was  read  night  and  morning — my  father 
was  a  hidebound  Presbyterian — and  I  was  so  sickened  by  the 
manner  in  which  it  was  forced  down  my  throat  and  the  incon- 
sistencies which  I  thought  I  saw  existing  between  Christian 
principle  and  practice,  even  in  my  own  home,  that  I  said  to  my- 
self I  would  conform  as  long  as  I  was  in  my  father's  house 
and  eating  his  bread,  but  when  I  got  out  I  would  do  as  I 
pleased.  I  was  in  my  father's  house  after  that  a  number  of 
years,  until  I  was  seventeen,  and  then  I  went  to  a  large  city, 
Cincinnati,  but  the  moment  I  was  away  and  free  I  threw  aside 
all  my  so-called  religious  training  and  set  out  to  do  what  I 
thought  was  the  most  pleasant  and  gratifying  thing  for  me  to  do. 
I  wanted  to  drink,  and  I  did,  though  I  was  really  never  a  very 
successful  drinker."  Eugene  smiled.  "I  wanted  to  gamble,  and 
I  did,  but  I  was  never  a  very  clever  gambler.  Still  I  did  gamble 
a  bit.  My  great  weakness  was  women,  and  here  I  hope  none 
will  be  offended,  I  know  they  will  not  be,  for  there  may  be 
others  who  need  my  testimony  badly.  I  pursued  women  as  I 
would  any  other  lure.  They  were  really  all  that  I  desired — 
their  bodies.  My  lust  was  terrible.  It  was  such  a  dominant 
thought  with  me  that  I  could  not  look  at  any  good-looking 
woman  except,  as  the  Bible  says,  to  lust  after  her.  I  was  vile. 


692  THE    "GENIUS" 

I  became  diseased.  I  was  carried  into  the  First  Church  of 
Christ  Scientist  in  Chicago,  after  I  had  spent  all  my  money  and 
five  years  of  my  time  on  physicians  and  specialists,  suffering 
from  locomotor  ataxia,  dropsy  and  kidney  disease.  I  had  pre- 
viously been  healed  of  some  other  things  by  ordinary  medicine. 

"If  there  is  anyone  within  the  sound  of  my  voice  who  is  af- 
flicted as  I  was,  I  want  him  to  listen  to  me. 

"I  want  to  say  to  you  tonight  that  I  am  a  well  man — not  well 
physically  only,  but  well  mentally,  and,  what  is  better  yet,  in  so 
far  as  I  can  see  the  truth,  spiritually.  I  was  healed  after  six 
months'  treatment  by  a  Christian  Science  practitioner  in  Chi- 
cago, who  took  my  case  on  my  appealing  to  her,  and  I  stand 
before  you  absolutely  sound  and  whole.  God  is  good." 

He  sat  down. 

While  he  had  been  talking  Eugene  had  been  studying  him 
closely,  observing  every  line  of  his  features.  He  was  tall,  lean, 
sandy-haired  and  sandy-bearded.  He  was  not  bad-looking,  with 
long  straight  nose,  clear  blue  eyes,  a  light  pinkish  color  to  his 
complexion,  and  a  sense  of  vigor  and  health  about  him.  The 
thing  that  Eugene  noted  most  was  that  he  was  calm,  cool,  se- 
rene, vital.  He  said  exactly  what  he  wanted  to  say,  and  he  said 
it  vigorously.  His  voice  was  clear  and  with  good  carrying 
power.  His  clothes  were  shapely,  new,  well  made.  He  was  no 
beggar  or  tramp,  but  a  man  of  some  profession — an  engineer, 
very  likely.  Eugene  wished  that  he  might  talk  to  him,  and  yet 
he  felt  ashamed.  Somehow  this  man's  case  paralleled  his  own; 
not  exactly,  but  closely.  He  personally  was  never  diseased,  but 
how  often  he  had  looked  after  a  perfectly  charming  woman  to 
lust  after  her!  Was  the  thing  that  this  man  was  saying  really 
true?  Could  he  be  lying?  How  ridiculous!  Could  he  be  mis- 
taken? This  man?  Impossible!  He  was  too  strong,  too  keen, 
too  sincere,  too  earnest,  to  be  either  of  these  things.  Still — 
But  this  testimony  might  have  been  given  for  his  benefit,  some 
strange  helpful  power — that  kindly  fate  that  had  always  pur- 
sued him  might  be  trying  to  reach  him  here.  Could  it  be?  He 
felt  a  little  strange  about  it,  as  he  had  when  he  saw  the  black- 
bearded  man  entering  the  train  that  took  him  to  Three  Rivers, 
the  time  he  went  at  the  call  of  Suzanne,  as  he  did  when  horse- 
shoes were  laid  before  him  by  supernatural  forces  to  warn  him 
of  coming  prosperity.  He  went  home  thinking,  and  that  night 
he  seriously  tried  to  read  "Science  and  Health"  for  the  first  time. 


CHAPTER   XXV 

THOSE  who  have  ever  tried  to  read  that  very  peculiar  and, 
to  many,  very  significant  document  know  what  an  apparent 
jumble  of  contradictions  and  metaphysical  balderdash  it  appears 
to  be.  The  statement  concerning  the  rapid  multiplication  and 
increased  violence  of  diseases  since  the  flood,  which  appears  in 
the  introduction  is  enough  to  shock  any  believer  in  definite,  ma- 
terial, established  natural  science,  and  when  Eugene  came  upon 
this  in  the  outset,  it  irritated  him,  of  course,  greatly.  Why 
should  anybody  make  such  a  silly  statement  as  this?  Everybody 
knew  that  there  had  never  been  a  flood.  Why  quote  a  myth  as 
a  fact?  It  irritated  and  from  a  critical  point  of  view  amused 
him.  Then  he  came  upon  what  he  deemed  to  be  a  jumble  of 
confusion  in  regard  to  matter  and  spirit.  The  author  talked  of 
the  evidences  of  the  five  physical  senses  as  being  worthless,  and 
yet  was  constantly  referring  to  and  using  similes  based  upon 
those  evidences  to  illustrate  her  spiritual  meanings.  He  threw 
the  book  down  a  number  of  times,  for  the  Biblical  references 
irritated  him.  He  did  not  believe  in  the  Bible.  The  very  word 
Christianity  was  a  sickening  jest,  as  sickening  as  it  had  been  to 
the  man  in  the  church.  To  say  that  the  miracles  of  Christ 
could  be  repeated  today  could  not  be  serious.  Still  the  man  had 
testified.  Wasn't  that  so?  A  certain  vein  of  sincerity  running 
through  it  all — that  profound  evidence  of  faith  and  sympathy 
which  are  the  characteristics  of  all  sincere  reformers — appealed 
to  him.  Some  little  thoughts  here  and  there — a  profound  ac- 
ceptance of  the  spiritual  understanding  of  Jesus,  which  he  him- 
self accepted,  stayed  with  him.  One  sentence  or  paragraph 
somehow  stuck  in  his  mind,  because  he  himself  was  of  a  meta- 
physical turn— 

1  'Become  conscious  for  a  single  moment  that  life  and  intelli- 
gence are  purely  spiritual,  neither  in  nor  of  matter,  and  the 
body  will  then  utter  no  complaints.  If  suffering  from  a  belief 
in  sickness,  you  will  find  yourself  suddenly  well.  Sorrow  is 
turned  into  joy  when  the  body  is  controlled  by  spiritual  life 
and  love." 

"God  is  a  spirit,"  he  recalled  Jesus  as  saying.  "They  that 
worship  Him  must  worship  in  spirit  and  in  truth." 

"You  will  find  yourself  suddenly  well,"  thought  Eugene. 
"Sorrow  is  turned  into  joy." 

693 


694  THE   "GENIUS' 

"Sorrow.  What  kind  of  sorrow?  Love  sorrow?  This  prob- 
ably meant  the  end  of  earthly  love;  that  that  too  was  mortal." 

He  read  on,  discovering  that  Scientists  believed  in  the  immac- 
ulate conception  of  the  Virgin  Mary,  which  struck  him  as  silly; 
also  that  they  believed  in  the  ultimate  abolition  of  marriage  as 
representing  a  mortal  illusion  of  self-creation  and  perpetuation, 
and  of  course  the  having  of  children  through  the  agency  of  the 
sexes,  also  the  dematerialization  of  the  body — its  chemicaliza- 
tion into  its  native  spirituality,  wherein  there  can  be  neither  sin, 
sickness,  disease,  decay  nor  death,  were  a  part  of  their  belief  or 
understanding.  It  seemed  to  him  to  be  a  wild  claim,  and  yet  at 
the  time,  because  of  his  natural  metaphysical  turn,  it  accorded 
with  his  sense  of  the  mystery  of  life. 

It  should  be  remembered  as  a  factor  in  this  reading  that  Eu- 
gene was  particularly  fitted  by  temperament — introspective,  im- 
aginative, psychical — and  by  a  momentarily  despairing  attitude, 
in  which  any  straw  was  worth  grasping  at  which  promised  re- 
lief from  sorrow,  despair  and  defeat,  to  make  a  study  of  this 
apparently  radical  theory  of  human  existence.  He  had  heard  a 
great  deal  of  Christian  Science,  seeing  its  churches  built,  its  ad- 
herents multiplying,  particularly  in  New  York,  and  enthusiasti- 
cally claiming  freedom  from  every  human  ill.  Idle,  without 
entertainment  or  diversion  and  intensely  introspective,  it  was 
natural  that  these  curious  statements  should  arrest  him. 

He  was  not  unaware,  also,  from  past  reading  and  scientific 
speculation,  that  Carlyle  had  once  said  that  "matter  itself — the 
outer  world  of  matter,  was  either  nothing,  or  else  a  product  due 
to  man's  mind"  (Carlyle's  Journal,  from  Froude's  Life  of  Car- 
lyle), and  that  Kant  had  held  the  whole  universe  to  be  some- 
thing in  the  eye  or  mind — neither  more  nor  less  than  a  thought. 
Marcus  Aurelius,  he  recalled,  had  said  somewhere  in  his  medi- 
tations that  the  soul  of  the  universe  was  kind  and  merciful ;  that 
it  had  no  evil  in  it,  and  was  not  harmed  by  evil.  This  latter 
thought  stuck  in  his  mind  as  peculiar  because  it  was  so  diametri- 
cally opposed  to  his  own  feelings  that  the  universe,  the  spirit  of 
it  that  is,  was  subtle,  cruel,  crafty,  and  malicious.  He  won- 
dered how  a  man  who  could  come  to  be  Emperor  of  Rome 
could  have  thought  otherwise.  Christ's  Sermon  on  the  Mount 
had  always  appealed  to  him  as  the  lovely  speculations  of  an 
idealist  who  had  no  real  knowledge  of  life.  Yet  he  had  always 
wondered  why  "Lay  not  up  for  yourselves  treasures  upon  earth, 
where  moth  and  rust  doth  corrupt,  and  where  thieves  break 
through  and  steal"  had  thrilled  him  as  something  so  beautiful 
that  it  must  be  true  "For  where  your  treasure  is  there  will  your 


THE    "GENIUS" 


695 


heart  be  also."  Keats  had  said  "beauty  is  truth — truth  beauty," 
and  still  another  "truth  is  what  is." 

"And  what  is?"  he  had  asked  himself  in  answer  to  that. 

'Beauty,"  was  his  reply  to  himself,  for  life  at  bottom,  in  spite 
of  all  its  teeming  terrors,  was  beautiful. 

Only  those  of  a  metaphysical  or  natural  religious  turn  of  mind 
would  care  to  follow  the  slow  process  of  attempted  alteration, 
which  took  place  during  the  series  of  months  which  followed 
Angela's  departure  for  Racine,  her  return  to  New  York  at 
Myrtle's  solicitation,  the  time  she  spent  in  the  maternity  hos- 
pital, whither  she  was  escorted  on  her  arrival  by  Eugene  and 
after.  These  are  the  deeps  of  being  which  only  the  more  able 
intellectually  essay,  but  Eugene  wandered  in  them  far  and  wide. 
There  were  long  talks  with  Myrtle  and  Bangs — arguments  upon 
all  phases  of  mortal  thought,  real  and  unreal,  with  which  An- 
gela's situation  had  nothing  to  do.  Eugene  frankly  confessed 
that  he  did  not  love  her — that  he  did  not  want  to  live  with  her. 
He  insisted  that  he  could  scarcely  live  without  Suzanne.  There 
was  the  taking  up  and  reading  or  re-reading  of  odd  philosophic 
and  religious  volumes,  for  he  had  nothing  else  to  do.  He  did 
not  care  at  first  to  go  and  sit  with  Angela,  sorry  as  he  was  for 
her.  He  read  or  re-read  Kent's  "History  of  the  Hebrews"; 
Weiniger's  "Sex  and  Character";  Car!  Snyder's  "The  World 
Machine";  Muzzey's  "Spiritual  Heroes";  Johnston's  translation 
of  "Bhagavad  Ghita";  Emerson's  essay  on  the  Oversoul,  and 
Huxley's  "Science  and  Hebrew  Tradition"  and  "Science  and 
Christian  Tradition."  He  learned  from  these  things  some  curious 
facts  which  relate  to  religion,  which  he  had  either  not  known 
before  or  forgotten,  i.e.,  that  the  Jews  were  almost  the  only 
race  or  nation  which  developed  a  consecutive  line  of  religious 
thinkers  or  prophets;  that  their  ideal  was  first  and  last  a  single 
God  or  Divinity,  tribal  at  first,  but  later  on  universal,  whose 
scope  and  significance  were  widened  until  He  embraced  the 
whole  universe — was,  in  fact,  the  Universe — a  governing  prin- 
ciple— one  God,  however,  belief  in  whom,  His  power  to  heal, 
to  build  up  and  overthrow  had  never  been  relinquished. 

The  Old  Testament  was  full  of  that.  Was  that.  The  old 
prophets,  he  learned  to  his  astonishment,  were  little  more  than 
whirling  dervishes  when  they  are  first  encountered  historically, 
working  themselves  up  into  wild  transports  and  frenzies,  lying 
on  the  ground  and  writhing,  cutting  themselves  as  the  Persian 
zealots  do  to  this  day  in  their  feast  of  the  tenth  month  and  re- 
sorting to  the  most  curious  devices  for  nurturing  their  fanatic 
spirit,  but  always  setting  forth  something  that  was  astonishingly 


696  .  THE   "GENIUS" 

spiritual  and  great.  They  usually  frequented  the  holy  places 
and  were  to  be  distinguished  by  their  wild  looks  and  queer 
clothing.  Isaiah  eschewed  clothing  for  three  years  (Is.  22,  21)  ; 
Jeremiah  appeared  in  the  streets  of  the  capital  (according  to 
Muzzey)  with  a  wooden  yoke  on  his  neck,  saying,  "Thus  shalt 
Juda's  neck  be  bent  under  bondage  to  the  Babylonian"  (Jer. 
27;  2  ff)  ;  Zedekiah  came  to  King  Ahab,  wearing  horns  of  iron 
like  a  steer,  and  saying,  "Thus  shalt  thou  push  the  Syrians" 
( I  Kings  22,  1 1 ) .  The  prophet  was  called  mad  because  he 
acted  like  a  madman.  Elisha  dashed  in  on  the  gruff  captain, 
Jehu,  in  his  camp  and  broke  a  vial  of  oil  on  his  head,  saying, 
"Thus  saith  the  Lord  God  of  Israel,  I  have  made  thee  king  over 
the  people  of  the  Lord" ;  then  he  opened  the  door  and  fled. 
Somehow,  though  these  things  seemed  wild,  yet  they  accorded 
with  Eugene's  sense  of  prophecy.  They  were  not  cheap  but 
great — wildly  dramatic,  like  the  word  of  a  Lord  God  might  be. 
Another  thing  that  fascinated  him  was  to  find  that  the  evolu- 
tionary hypothesis  did  not  after  all  shut  out  a  conception  of  a 
ruling,  ordaining  Divinity,  as  he  had  supposed,  for  he  came  across 
several  things  in  the  papers  which,  now  that  he  was  thinking 
about  this  so  keenly,  held  him  spellbound.  One  was  quoted  from 
a  biological  work  by  a  man  named  George  M.  Gould,  and  read : 
"Life  reaches  control  of  physical  forces  by  the  cell-mechanism, 
and,  so  far  as  we  know,  by  it  solely."  From  reading  Mrs. 
Eddy  and  arguing  with  Bangs,  Eugene  was  not  prepared  to  ad- 
mit this,  but  he  was  fascinated  to  see  how  it  led  ultimately  to  an 
acknowledgment  of  an  active  Divinity  which  shapes  our  ends. 
"No  organic  molecule  shows  any  evidence  of  intellect,  design 
or  purpose.  It  is  the  product  solely  of  mathematically  deter- 
minate and  invariable  physical  forces.  Life  becomes  conscious  of 
itself  through  specialized  cellular  activity,  and  human  person- 
ality, therefore,  can  only  be  a  unity  of  greater  differentiations  of 
function,  a  higher  and  fuller  incarnation  than  the  single  cell 
incarnation.  Life,  or  God,  is  in  the  cell.  .  .  .  (And  every- 
where outside  of  it,  quite  as  active  and  more  so,  perhaps,  Eu- 
gene reserved  mentally.)  The  cell's  intelligence  is  His. 
(From  reading  Mrs.  Eddy,  Eugene  could  not  quite  agree  with 
this.  According  to  her,  it  was  an  illusion.)  The  human  per- 
sonality is  also  at  last  Himself  and  only  Himself.  ...  If 
you  wish  to  say  'Biologos'  or  God  instead  of  Life,  I  heartily 
agree,  and  we  are  face  to  face  with  the  sublime  fact  of  biology. 
The  cell  is  God's  instrument  and  mediator  in  materiality;  it  is 
the  mechanism  of  incarnation,  the  word  made  flesh  and  dwelling 
among  us." 


THE    "GENIUS"  697 

The  other  was  a  quotation  in  a  Sunday  newspaper  from  some 
man  who  appeared  to  be  a  working  physicist  of  the  time — Edgar 
Lucien  Larkin: 

"With  the  discovery  and  recent  perfection  of  the  new  ultra- 
violet light  microscope  and  the  companion  apparatus,  the  micro- 
photographic  camera,  with  rapidly  moving,  sensitive  films,  it 
seems  that  the  extreme  limit  of  vision  of  the  human  eye  has  been 
reached.  Inorganic  and  organic  particles  have  been  seen,  and 
these  so  minute  that  (the  smallest)  objects  visible  in  the  most 
powerful  old-style  instruments  are  as  huge  chunks  in  compari- 
son. An  active  microscopic  universe  as  wonderful  as  the  sidereal 
universe,  the  stellar  structure,  has  been  revealed.  This  com- 
plexity actually  exists;  but  exploration  has  scarcely  commenced. 
Within  a  hundred  years,  devoted  to  this  research,  the  micro- 
universe  may  be  partially  understood.  Laws  of  micro-move- 
ments may  be  detected  and  published  in  textbooks  like  those  of 
the  gigantic  universe  suns  and  their  concentric  planets  and 
moons.  I  cannot  look  into  these  minute  moving  and  living 
deeps  without  instantly  believing  that  they  are  mental — every 
motion  is  controlled  by  mind.  The  longer  I  look  at  the  amazing 
things,  the  deeper  is  this  conviction.  This  micro-universe  is 
rooted  and  grounded  in  a  mental  base.  Positively  and  without 
hope  of  overthrow,  this  assertion  is  made — the  flying  particles 
know  where  to  go.  Coarse  particles,  those  visible  in  old-time 
microscopes,  when  suspended  in  liquids,  were  observed  to  be  in 
rapid  motion,  darting  to  all  geometrical  directions  with  high 
speed.  But  the  ultra-violet  microscope  reveals  moving  trillions 
of  far  smaller  bodies,  and  these  rush  on  geometric  lines  and  cut- 
out angles  with  the  most  incredible  speed,  specific  for  each  kind 
and  type." 

What  were  the  angles?  Eugene  asked  himself.  Who  made  them? 
Who  or  what  arranged  the  geometric  lines?  The  "Divine 
Mind"  of  Mrs.  Eddy?  Had  this  woman  really  found  the  truth? 
He  pondered  this,  reading  on,  and  then  one  day  in  a  paper  he 
came  upon  this  reflection  in  regard  to  the  universe  and  its  gov- 
ernment by  Alfred  Russel  Wallace,  which  interested  him  as  a 
proof  that  there  might  be,  as  Jesus  said  and  as  Mrs.  Eddy  con- 
tended, a  Divine  Mind  or  central  thought  in  which  there  was  no 
evil  intent,  but  only  good.  The  quotation  was:  "Life  is  that 
power  which,  from  air  and  water  and  the  substances  dissolved 
therein,  builds  up  organized  and  highly  complex  structures  pos- 
sessing definite  forms  and  functions ;  these  are  presented  in  a  con- 
tinuous state  of  decay  and  repair  by  internal  circulation  of  fluids 
and  gases ;  they  reproduce  their  like,  go  through  various  phases  of 


698  THE    '  'GENIUS'3 

youth,  maturity  and  age,  die  and  quickly  decompose  into  their 
constituent  elements.  They  thus  form  continuous  series  of  similar 
individuals  and  so  long  as  external  conditions  render  their  exist- 
ence possible  seem  to  possess  a  potential  immortality. 

"It  is  very  necessary  to  presuppose  some  vast  intelligence,  some 
pervading  spirit,  to  explain  the  guidance  of  the  lower  forces  in 
accordance  with  the  preordained  system  of  evolution  we  see  pre- 
vailing. Nothing  less  will  do.  ... 

"If,  however,  we  go  as  far  as  this,  we  must  go  further.  .  .  . 
We  have  a  perfect  right,  on  logical  and  scientific  grounds,  to  see 
in  all  the  infinitely  varied  products  of  the  animal  and  vegetable 
kingdoms,  which  we  alone  can  make  use  of,  a  preparation  for  our- 
selves, to  assist  in  our  mental  development,  and  to  fit  us  for  a 
progressively  higher  state  of  existence  as  spiritual  beings. 

"  ...  It  seems  only  logical  to  assume  that  the  vast,  the  in- 
finite chasm  between  ourselves  and  the  Deity,  is  to  some  ex- 
tent occupied  by  an  almost  infinite  series  of  grades  of  beings, 
each  successive  grade  having  higher  and  higher  powers  in  regard 
to  the  origination,  the  development  and  the  control  of  the  uni- 
verse. 

11  .  .  .  There  may  have  been  a  vast  system  of  co-operation 
of  such  grades  of  beings,  from  a  very  high  grade  of  power  and 
intelligence  down  to  those  unconscious  or  almost  unconscious 
cell  souls  posited  by  Haeckel.  .  .  . 

"I  can  imagine  the  .  .  .  Infinite  Being,  foreseeing  and  deter- 
mining the  broad  outlines  of  a  universe.  .  .  . 

"He  might,  for  instance,  impress  a  sufficient  number  of  his 
highest  angels  to  create  by  their  will  power  the  primal  universe 
of  ether,  with  all  those  inherent  properties  and  forces  necessary 
for  what  was  to  follow.  Using  this  as  a  vehicle,  the  next  sub- 
ordinate association  of  angels  would  so  act  upon  the  ether  as  to 
develop  from  it,  in  suitable  masses  and  at  suitable  distances,  the 
various  elements  of  matter,  which,  under  the  influence  of  such 
laws  and  forces  as  gravitation,  heat,  and  electricity,  would  thence- 
forth begin  to  form  those  vast  systems  of  nebulae  and  suns  which 
constitute  our  stellar  universe. 

"Then  we  may  imagine  these  hosts  of  angels,  to  whom  a 
thousand  years  are  as  one  day,  watching  the  development  of  this 
vast  system  of  suns  and  planets  until  some  one  or  more  of  them 
combined  in  itself  all  those  conditions  of  size,  of  elementary  con- 
stitution, of  atmosphere,  of  mass  of  water  and  requisite  distance 
from  its  source  of  heat  as  to  insure  a  stability  of  constitution 
and  uniformity  of  temperature  for  a  given  minimum  of  millions 
of  years,  or  of  ages,  as  would  be  required  for  the  full  develop- 


THE   "GENIUS"  699 

ment  of  a  life  world  from  amoeba  to  man,  with  a  surplus  of  a 
few  hundreds  of  millions  for  his  adequate  development. 

"We  are  led,  therefore,  to  postulate  a  body  of  what  we  may 
term  organizing  spirits,  who  would  be  charged  with  the  duty  of 
so  influencing  the  myriads  of  cell  souls  as  to  carry  out  their 
part  of  the  work  with  accuracy  and  certainty.  .  .  . 

"At  successive  stages  of  the  development  of  the  life  world, 
more  and  perhaps  higher  intelligences  might  be  required  to 
direct  the  main  lines  of  variation  in  definite  directions,  in  accord- 
ance with  the  general  design  to  be  worked  out,  and  to  guard 
against  a  break  in  the  particular  line,  which  alone  could  lead 
ultimately  to  the  production  of  the  human  form. 

"This  speculative  suggestion,  I  venture  to  hope,  will  appeal  to 
some  of  my  readers  as  the  very  best  approximation  we  are  now 
able  to  formulate  as  to  the  deeper,  the  most  fundamental  causes 
of  matter  and  force  of  life  and  consciousness,  and  of  man  him- 
self, at  his  best,  already  a  little  lower  than  the  angels,  and,  like 
them,  destined  to  a  permanent  progressive  existence  in  a  world 
of  spirit." 

This  very  peculiar  and  apparently  progressive  statement  in 
regard  to  the  conclusion  which  naturalistic  science  had  revealed 
in  regard  to  the  universe  struck  Eugene  as  pretty  fair  confirma- 
tion of  Mrs.  Eddy's  contention  that  all  was  mind  and  its  infi- 
nite variety  and  that  the  only  difference  between  her  and  the 
British  scientific  naturalists  was  that  they  contended  for  an 
ordered  hierarchy  which  could  only  rule  and  manifest  itself  ac- 
cording to  its  own  ordered  or  self-imposed  laws,  which  they 
could  perceive  or  detect,  whereas,  she  contended  for  a  governing 
spirit  which  was  everywhere  and  would  act  through  ordered  laws 
and  powers  of  its  own  arrangement.  God  was  a  principle  like 
a  rule  in  mathematics — two  times  two  is  four,  for  instance — and 
was  as  manifest  daily  and  hourly  and  momentarily  in  a  hall  bed- 
room as  in  the  circling  motions  of  suns  and  systems.  God  was 
a  principle.  He  grasped  that  now.  A  principle  could  be  and 
was  of  course  anywhere  and  everywhere  at  one  and  the  same 
time.  One  could  not  imagine  a  place  for  instance  where  two 
times  two  would  not  be  four,  or  where  that  rule  would  not  be. 
So,  likewise  with  the  omnipotent,  omniscient,  omnipresent  mind 
of  God. 


CHAPTER   XXVI 

THE  most  dangerous  thing  to  possess  a  man  to  the  extent  of 
dominating  him  is  an  idea.  It  can  and  does  ride  him  to 
destruction.  Eugene's  idea  of  the  perfection  of  eighteen  was 
one  of  the  most  dangerous  things  in  his  nature.  In  a  way,  com- 
bined with  the  inability  of  Angela  to  command  his  interest  and 
loyalty,  it  had  been  his  undoing  up  to  this  date.  A  religious  idea 
followed  in  a  narrow  sense  would  have  diverted  this  other,  but 
it  also  might  have  destroyed  him,  if  he  had  been  able  to  follow 
it.  Fortunately  the  theory  he  was  now  interesting  himself  in 
was  not  a  narrow  dogmatic  one  in  any  sense,  but  religion  in  its 
large  aspects,  a  comprehensive  resume  and  spiritual  co-ordination 
of  the  metaphysical  speculation  of  the  time,  which  was  worthy 
of  anyone's  intelligent  inquiry.  Christian  Science  as  a  cult  or 
religion  was  shunned  by  current  religions  and  religionists  as 
something  outre,  impossible,  uncanny — as  necromancy,  imagina- 
tion, hypnotism,  mesmerism,  spiritism — everything,  in  short,  that 
it  was  not,  and  little,  if  anything,  that  it  really  was.  Mrs.  Eddy 
had  formulated  or  rather  restated  a  fact  that  was  to  be  found 
in  the  sacred  writings  of  India;  in  the  Hebrew  testaments,  old 
and  new;  in  Socrates,  Marcus  Aurelius,  St.  Augustine,  Emerson, 
and  Carlyle.  The  one  variation  notable  between  her  and  the 
moderns  was  that  her  ruling  unity  was  not  malicious,  as  Eugene 
and  many  others  fancied,  but  helpful.  Her  unity  was  a  unity 
of  love.  God  wras  everything  but  the  father  of  evil,  which  ac- 
cording to  her  was  an  illusion — neither  fact  nor  substance — sound 
and  fury,  signifying  nothing. 

It  must  be  remembered  that  during  all  the  time  Eugene  was 
doing  this  painful  and  religious  speculation  he  was  living  in  the 
extreme  northern  portion  of  the  city,  working  desultorily  at  some 
paintings  which  he  thought  he  might  sell,  visiting  Angela  oc- 
casionally, safely  hidden  away  in  the  maternity  hospital  at 
One  Hundred  and  Tenth  Street,  thinking  hourly  and  momen- 
tarily of  Suzanne,  and  wondering  if,  by  any  chance,  he  should 
ever  see  her  any  more.  His  mind  had  been  so  inflamed  by  the 
beauty  and  the  disposition  of  this  girl  that  he  was  really  not 
normal  any  longer.  He  needed  some  shock, 'some  catastrophe 
greater  than  any  he  had  previously  experienced  to  bring  him  to 
his  senses.  The  loss  of  his  position  had  done  something.  The 
loss  of  Suzanne  had  only  heightened  his  affection  for  her.  The 

700 


THE    "GENIUS"  701 

condition  of  Angela  had  given  him  pause,  for  it  was  an  inter- 
esting question  what  would  become  of  her.  "If  she  would  only 
die!"  he  said  to  himself,  for  we  have  the  happy  faculty  of  hating 
most  joyously  on  this  earth  the  thing  we  have  wronged  the 
most.  He  could  scarcely  go  and  see  her,  so  obsessed  was  he 
with  the  idea  that  she  was  a  handicap  to  his  career.  The  idea 
of  her  introducing  a  child  into  his  life  only  made  him  savage. 
Now,  if  she  should  die,  he  would  have  the  child  to  care  for  and 
Suzanne,  because  of  it,  might  never  come  to  him. 

His  one  idea  at  this  time  was  not  to  be  observed  too  much, 
or  rather  not  at  all,  for  he  considered  himself  to  be  in  great  dis- 
favor, and  only  likely  to  do  himself  injury  by  a  public  appear- 
ance— a  fact  which  was  more  in  his  own  mind  than  anywhere 
else.  If  he  had  not  believed  it,  it  would  not  have  been  true. 
For  this  reason  he  had  selected  this  quiet  neighborhood  where 
the  line  of  current  city  traffic  was  as  nothing,  for  here  he  could 
brood  in  peace.  The  family  that  he  lived  with  knew  nothing 
about  him.  Winter  was  setting  in.  Because  of  the  cold  and 
snow  and  high  winds,  he  was  not  likely  to  see  many  people  here- 
abouts— particularly  those  celebrities  who  had  known  him  in  the 
past.  There  was  a  great  deal  of  correspondence  that  followed 
him  from  his  old  address,  for  his  name  had  been  used  on  many 
committees,  he  was  in  "Who's  Who,"  and  he  had  many  friends 
less  distinguished  than  those  whose  companionship  would  have 
required  the  expenditure  of  much  money  who  would  have  been 
glad  to  look  him  up.  He  ignored  all  invitations,  however;  re- 
fused to  indicate  by  return  mail  where  he  was  for  the  present; 
walked  largely  at  night ;  read,  painted,  or  sat  and  brooded  during 
the  day.  He  was  thinking  all  the  time  of  Suzanne  and  how 
disastrously  fate  had  trapped  him  apparently  through  her.  He 
was  thinking  that  she  might  come  back,  that  she  ought.  Lovely, 
hurtful  pictures  came  to  him  of  re-encounters  with  her  in  which 
she  would  rush  into  his  arms,  never  to  part,  from  him  any  more. 
Angela,  in  her  room  at  the  hospital,  received  little  thought  from 
him.  She  wTas  there.  She  was  receiving  expert  medical  atten- 
tion. He  was  paying  all  the  bills.  Her  serious  time  had  not 
yet  really  come.  Myrtle  was  seeing  her.  He  ciught  glimpses 
of  himself  at  times  as  a  cruel,  hard  intellect  driving  the  most 
serviceable  thing  his  life  had  known  from  him  with  blows,  but 
somehow  it  seemed  justifiable.  Angela  was  not  suited  to  him. 
Why  could  she  not  live  away  from  him?  Christian  Science  set 
aside  marriage  entirely  as  a  human  illusion,  conflicting  with  the 
indestructible  unity  of  the  individual  with  God.  Why  shouldn't 
she  let  him  go? 


702  THE    "GENIUS'' 

He  wrote  poems  to  Suzanne,  and  read  much  poetry  that  he 
found  in  an  old  trunkful  of  books  in  the  house  where  he  was 
living.  He  would  read  again  and  again  the  sonnet  beginning, 
"When  in  disgrace  with  fortune  and  men's  eyes" — that  cry  out 
of  a  darkness  that  seemed  to  be  like  his  own.  He  bought  a  book 
of  verse  by  Yeats,  and  seemed  to  hear  his  own  voice  saying  of 
Suzanne, 

"Why  should  I  blame  her  that  she  filled  my  days 
With  misery  .  .  . 

He  was  not  quite  as  bad  as  he  was  when  he  had  broken  down 
eight  years  before,  but  he  was  very  bad.  His  mind  was  once 
more  riveted  upon  the  uncertainty  of  life,  its  changes,  its  follies. 
He  was  studying  those  things  only  which  deal  with  the  abstrusi- 
ties of  nature,  and  this  began  to  breed  again  a  morbid  fear  of 
life  itself.  Myrtle  was  greatly  distressed  about  him.  She  wor- 
ried lest  he  might  lose  his  mind. 

"Why  don't  you  go  to  see  a  practitioner,  Eugene?"  she  begged 
of  him  one  day.  "You  will  get  help — really  you  will.  You 
think  you  won't,  but  you  will.  There  is  something  about  them 
—I  don't  know  what.  They  are  spiritually  at  rest.  You  will 
feel  better.  Do  go." 

"Oh,  why  do  you  bother  me,  Myrtle?  Please  don't.  I  don't 
want  to  go.  I  think  there  is  something  in  the  idea  metaphysi- 
cally speaking,  but  why  should  I  go  to  a  practitioner?  God  is 
as  near  me  as  He  is  anyone,  if  there  is  a  God." 

Myrtle  wrung  her  hands,  and  because  she  felt  so  badly  more 
than  anything  else,  he  finally  decided  to  go.  There  might  be 
something  hypnotic  or  physically  contagious  about  these  people — 
some  old  alchemy  of  the  mortal  body,  which  could  reach  and 
soothe  him.  He  believed  in  hypnotism,  hypnotic  suggestion,  etc. 
He  finally  called  up  one  practitioner,  an  old  lady  highly  recom- 
mended by  Myrtle  and  others,  who  lived  farther  south  on 
Broadway,  somewhere  in  the  neighborhood  of  Myrtle's  home. 
Mrs.  Althea  Johns  was  her  name — a  woman  who  had  performed 
wonderful  cures.  Why  should  he,  Eugene  Witla,  he  asked  him- 
self as  he  took  up  the  receiver,  why  should  he,  Eugene  Witla,  ex- 
managing  publisher  of  the  United  Magazines  Corporation,  ex- 
artist  (in  a  way,  he  felt  that  he  was  no  longer  an  artist  in  the 
best  sense)  be  going  to  a  woman  in  Christian  Science  to  be 
healed  of  what?  Gloom?  Yes.  Failure?  Yes.  Heartache? 
Yes.  His  evil  tendencies  in  regard  to  women,  such  as  the 
stranger  who  had  sat  beside  him  had  testified  to?  Yes.  How 
strange!  And  yet  he  was  curious.  It  interested  him  a  little  to 


THE    "GENIUS"  703 

speculate  as  to  whether  this  could  really  be  done.  Could  he  be 
healed  of  failure?  Could  this  pain  of  longing  be  made  to  cease? 
Did  he  want  it  to  cease?  No;  certainly  not!  He  wanted 
Suzanne.  Myrtle's  idea,  he  knew,  was  that  somehow  this 
treatment  would  reunite  him  and  Angela  and  make  him  forget 
Suzanne,  but  he  knew  that  could  not  be.  He  was  going,  but 
he  was  going  because  he  was  unhappy  and  idle  and  aimless. 
He  was  going  because  he  really  did  not  know  what  else  to 
do. 

The  apartment  of  Mrs.  Johns — Mrs.  Althea  Johns — was  in 
an  apartment  house  of  conventional  design,  of  which  there  were 
in  New  York  hundreds  upon  hundreds  at  the  time.  There  was 
a  spacious  areaway  between  two  wings  of  cream-colored  pressed 
brick  leading  back  to  an  entrance  way  which  was  protected  by 
a  handsome  wrought-iron  door  on  either  side  of  which  was 
placed  an  electric  lamp  support  of  handsome  design,  holding 
lovely  cream-colored  globes,  shedding  a  soft  lustre.  Inside  was 
the  usual  lobby,  elevator,  uniformed  negro  elevator  man,  in- 
different and  impertinent,  and  the  telephone  switchboard.  The 
building  was  seven  storeys  high.  Eugene  went  one  snowy,  blus- 
tery January  night.  The  great  wet  flakes  were  spinning  in  huge 
whirls  and  the  streets  were  covered  with  a  soft,  slushy  carpet  of 
snow.  He  was  interested,  as  usual,  in  spite  of  his  gloom,  in 
the  picture  of  beauty  the  world  presented — the  city  wrapped  in 
a  handsome  mantle  of  white.  Here  were  cars  rumbling,  people 
hunched  in  great  coats  facing  the  driving  wind.  He  liked  the 
snow,  the  flakes,  this  wonder  of  material  living.  It  eased  his 
mind  of  his  misery  and  made  him  think  of  painting  again. 
Mrs.  Johns  was  on  the  seventh  floor.  Eugene  knocked  and 
was  admitted  by  a  maid.  He  was  shown  to  a  waiting  room,  for 
he  was  a  little  ahead  of  his  time,  and  there  were  others — healthy- 
looking  men  and  women,  who  did  not  appear  to  have  an  ache 
or  pain — ahead  of  him.  Was  not  this  a  sign,  he  thought  as  he 
sat  down,  that  this  was  something  which  dealt  with  imaginary 
ills?  Then  why  had  the  man  he  had  heard  in  the  church  beside 
him  testified  so  forcibly  and  sincerely  to  his  healing?  Well,  he 
would  wait  and  see.  He  did  not  see  what  it  could  do  for  him 
now.  He  had  to  work.  He  sat  there  in  one  corner,  his  hands 
folded  and  braced  under  his  chin,  thinking.  The  room  was  not 
artistic  but  rather  nondescript,  the  furniture  cheap  or  rather 
tasteless  in  design.  Didn't  Divine  Mind  know  any  better  than 
to  present  its  representatives  in  such  a  guise  as  this?  Could  a 
person  called  to  assist  in  representing  the  majesty  of  God  on 
earth  be  left  so  unintelligent  artistically  as  to  live  in  a  house  like 


704  THE    "GENIUS" 

this?    Surely  this  was  a  poor  manifestation  of  Divinity,  but 

Mrs.  Johns  came — a  short,  stout,  homely  woman,  gray,  wrin- 
kled, dowdy  in  her  clothing,  a  small  wen  on  one  side  of  her 
mouth,  a  nose  slightly  too  big  to  be  pleasing — all  mortal  de- 
ficiencies as  to  appearance  highly  emphasized,  and  looking  like 
an  old  print  of  Mrs.  Micawber  that  he  had  seen  somewhere. 
She  had  on  a  black  skirt  good  as  to  material,  but  shapeless, 
commonplace,  and  a  dark  blue-gray  waist.  Her  eye  was  clear 
and  gray  though,  he  noticed,  and  she  had  a  pleasing  smile. 

"This  is  Mr.  Witla,  I  believe,"  she  said,  coming  across  the 
room  to  him,  for  he  had  got  into  a  corner  near  the  window,  and 
speaking  with  an  accent  which  sounded  a  little  Scotch.  "I'm  so 
glad  to  see  you.  Won't  you  come  in?"  she  said,  giving  him 
precedence  over  some  others  because  of  his  appointment,  and 
re-crossed  the  room  preceding  him  down  the  hall  to  her  practice 
room.  She  stood  to  one  side  to  take  his  hand  as  he  passed. 

He  touched  it  gingerly. 

So  this  was  Mrs.  Johns,  he  thought,  as  he  entered,  looking 
about  him.  Bangs  and  Myrtle  had  insisted  that  she  had  per- 
formed wonderful  cures — or  rather  that  Divine  Mind  had, 
through  her.  Her  hands  were  wrinkled,  her  face  old.  Why 
didn't  she  make  herself  young  if  she  could  perform  these  won- 
derful cures?  Why  was  this  room  so  mussy?  It  was  actually 
stuffy  with  chromos  and  etchings  of  the  Christ  and  Bible  scenes 
on  the  walls,  a  cheap  red  carpet  or  rug  on  the  floor,  inartistic 
leather-covered  chairs,  a  table  or  desk  too  full  of  books,  a  pale 
picture  of  Mrs.  Eddy  and  silly  mottoes  of  which  he  was  sick 
and  tired  hung  here  and  there.  People  were  such  hacks  when 
it  came  to  the  art  of  living.  How  could  they  pretend  to  a 
sense  of  Divinity  who  knew  nothing  of  life?  He  was  weary 
and  the  room  here  offended  him.  Mrs.  Johns  did.  Besides,  her 
voice  was  slightly  falsetto.  Could  she  cure  cancer?  and  con- 
sumption? and  all  other  horrible  human  ills,  as  Myrtle  insisted 
she  had?  He  didn't  believe  it. 

He  sat  dowrn  wearily  and  yet  contentiously  in  the  chair  she 
pointed  out  to  him  and  stared  at  her  while  she  quietly  seated 
herself  opposite  him  looking  at  him  with  kindly,  smiling  eyes. 

"And  now,"  she  said  easily,  "what  does  God's  child  think  is 
the  matter  with  him?" 

Eugene  stirred  irritably. 

"God's  child,"  he  thought;  "what  cant!"  What  right  had  he 
to  claim  to  be  a  child  of  God  ?  What  was  the  use  of  beginning 
that  way?  It  was  silly,  so  asinine.  Why  not  ask  plainly  what 
was  the  matter  with  him?  Still  he  answered: 


THE    "GENIUS" 


705 


"Oh,  a  number  of  things.  So  many  that  I  am  pretty  sure 
they  can  never  be  remedied." 

"As  bad  as  that?  Surely  not.  It  is  good  to  know,  anyhow, 
that  nothing  is  impossible  to  God.  We  can  believe  that,  any- 
how, can't  we?"  she  replied,  smiling.  "You  believe  in  God,  or 
a  ruling  power,  don't  you?" 

"I  don't  know  whether  I  do  or  not.  In  the  main,  I  guess  I 
do.  I'm  sure  I  ought  to.  Yes,  I  guess  I  do." 

"Is  He  a  malicious  God  to  you?" 

"I  have  always  thought  so,"  he  replied,  thinking  of  Angela. 

"Mortal  mind!  Mortal  mind!"  she  asseverated  to  herself. 
"What  delusions  will  it  not  harbor!" 

And  then  to  him: 

"One  has  to  be  cured  almost  against  one's  will  to  know  that 
God  is  a  God  of  love.  So  you  believe  you  are  sinful,  do  you, 
and  that  He  is  malicious?  It  is  not  necessary  that  you  should 
tell  me  how.  We  are  all  alike  in  the  mortal  state.  I  would 
like  to  call  your  attention  to  Isaiah's  words,  'Though  your  sins 
be  as  scarlet,  they  shall  be  as  white  as  snow ;  though  they  be  red 
like  crimson,  they  shall  be  as  wool.'  " 

Eugene  had  not  heard  this  quotation  for  years.  It  was  only 
a  dim  thing  in  his  memory.  It  flashed  out  simply  now  and  ap- 
pealed, as  had  all  these  Hebraic  bursts  of  prophetic  imagery  in 
the  past.  Mrs.  Johns,  for  all  her  wen  and  her  big  nose  and 
dowdy  clothes,  was  a  little  better  for  having  been  able  to  quote 
this  so  aptly.  It  raised  her  in  his  estimation.  It  showed  a  vig- 
orous mind,  at  least  a  tactful  mind. 

"Can  you  cure  sorrow?"  he  asked  grimly  and  with  a  touch  of 
sarcasm  in  his  voice.  "Can  you  cure  heartache  or  fear?" 

"I  can  do  nothing  of  myself,"  she  said,  perceiving  his  mood. 
"All  things  are  possible  to  God,  however.  If  you  believe  in  a 
Supreme  Intelligence,  He  will  cure  you.  St.  Paul  says  'I  can 
do  all  things  through  Christ  which  strengtheneth  me.'  Have 
you  read  Mrs.  Eddy's  book?" 

"Most  of  it.     I'm  still  reading  it." 

"Do  you  understand  it?" 

"No,  not  quite.  It  seems  a  bundle  of  contradictions  to 
me." 

"To  those  who  are  first  coming  into  Science  it  nearly  always 
seems  so.  But  don't  let  that  worry  you.  You  would  like  to  be 
cured  of  your  troubles.  St.  Paul  says,  Tor  the  wisdom  of  this 
world  is  foolishness  with  God.'  'The  Lord  knoweth  the  thoughts 
of  the  wise — that  they  are  vain.'  Do  not  think  of  me  as  a 
woman,  or  as  having  had  anything  to  do  with  this.  I  would 


7o6  THE    "GENIUS" 

rather  have  you  think  of  me  as  St.  Paul  describes  anyone  who 
works  for  truth — 'Now  then  we  are  ambassadors  for  Christ,  as 
though  God  did  beseech  you  by  us,  \ve  pray  you  in  Christ's 
stead,  be  ye  reconciled  to  God.1  ' 

"You  know  your  Bible,  don't  you?"  said  Eugene. 

"It  is  the  only  knowledge  I  have/'  she  replied. 

There  followed  one  of  those  peculiar  religious  demonstrations 
so  common  in  Christian  Science — so  peculiar  to  the  uninitiated — 
in  which  she  asked  Eugene  to  fix  his  mind  in  meditation  on  the 
Lord's  prayer.  "Never  mind  if  it  seems  pointless  to  you  now. 
You  have  come  here  seeking  aid.  You  are  God's  perfect  image 
and  likeness.  He  will  not  send  you  away  empty-handed.  Let 
me  read  you  first,  though,  this  one  psalm,  which  I  think  is  al- 
ways so  helpful  to  the  beginner."  She  opened  her  Bible,  which 
was  on  the  table  near  her,  and  began: 

"He  that  dwelleth  in  the  secret  place  of  the  most  high  shall 
abide  under  the  shadow  of  the  Almighty. 

"I  will  say  of  the  Lord,  He  is  my  refuge  and  my  fortress; 
my  God;  in  him  will  I  trust. 

"Surely  he  shall  deliver  thee  from  the  snare  of  the  fowler, 
and  from  the  noisome  pestilence. 

"He  shall  cover  thee  with  his  feathers,  and  under  his  wings 
shalt  thou  trust:  his  truth  shall  be  thy  shield  and  thy  buckler. 

"Thou  shalt  not  be  afraid  for  the  terror  by  night,  nor  for  the 
arrow  that  flieth  by  day.  Nor  for  the  pestilence  that  walketh 
in  the  darkness;  nor  for  destruction  that  wasteth  at  noonday. 

"A  thousand  shall  fall  at  thy  side,  and  ten  thousand  at  thy 
right  hand ;  but  it  shall  not  come  nigh  thee. 

"Only  with  thine  eyes  shalt  thou  behold  and  see  the  reward 
of  the  wicked. 

"Because  thou  hast  made  the  Lord,  which  is  my  refuge,  even 
the  most  High,  thy  habitation;  There  shall  no  evil  befall  thee, 
neither  shall  any  plague  come  nigh  thy  dwelling. 

"For  he  shall  give  his  angels  charge  over  thee,  to  keep  thee 
in  all  thy  ways. 

"They  shall  bear  thee  up  in  their  hands,  lest  thou  dash  thy 
foot  against  a  stone. 

"Thou  shalt  tread  upon  the  lion  and  the  adder,  the  young 
lion  and  the  dragon  shalt  thou  trample  under  foot. 

"Because  he  hath  set  his  love  upon  me,  therefore  will  I 
deliver  him.  I  will  set  him  on  high,  because  he  hath  known  my 
name. 

"He  shall  call  upon  me,  and  I  will  answer  him:  I  will  be 
with  him  in  trouble.  I  will  deliver  him  and  honor  him. 


THE   "GENIUS"  707 

"With  long  life  will  I  satisfy  him,  and  show  him  my  salva- 
tion." 

^  During  this  most  exquisite  pronunciamento  of  Divine  favor 
Eugene  was  sitting  with  his  eyes  closed,  his  thoughts  wandering 
over  all  his  recent  ills.  For  the  first  time  in  years,  he  was  trying 
to  fix  his  mind  upon  an  all-wise,  omnipresent,  omnipotent  gen- 
erosity. It  was  hard  and  he  could  not  reconcile  the  beauty  of 
this  expression  of  Divine  favor  with  the  nature  of  the  world  as 
he  knew  it.  What  was  the  use  of  saying,  "They  shall  bear  thee 
up  in  their  hands  lest  thou  dash  thy  foot  against  a  stone,"  when 
he  had  seen  Angela  and  himself  suffering  so  much  recently? 
Wasn't  he  dwelling  in  the  secret  place  of  the  Most  High  when 
he  was  alive?  How  could  one  get  out  of  it?  Still "Be- 
cause he  hath  set  his  love  on  me — therefore  will  I  deliver  him." 
Was  that  the  answer?  Was  Angela's  love  set  on  him?  Was 
his  own?  Might  not  all  their  woes  have  sprung  from  that? 

"He  shall  call  upon  me  and  I  shall  answer.  I  will  deliver 
him  in  trouble.  I  will  deliver  him  and  honor  him." 

Had  he  ever  really  called  on  Him?  Had  Angela?  Hadn't 
they  been  left  in  the  slough  of  their  own  despond?  Still  An- 
gela was  not  suited  to  him.  Why  did  not  God  straighten  that 
out?  He  didn't  want  to  live  with  her. 

He  wandered  through  this  philosophically,  critically,  until 
Mrs.  Johns  stopped.  What,  he  asked  himself,  if,  in  spite  of  all 
his  doubts,  this  seeming  clamor  and  reality  and  pain  and  care 
were  an  illusion?  Angela  was  suffering.  So  were  many  other 
people.  How  could  this  thing  be  true?  Did  not  these  facts 
exclude  the'  possibility  of  illusion?  Could  they  possibly  be  a 
part  of  it? 

"Now  we  are  going  to  try  to  realize  that  we  are  God's  per- 
fect children,"  she  said,  stopping  and  looking  at  him.  "We 
think  we  are  so  big  and  strong  and  real.  We  are  real  enough, 
but  only  as  a  thought  in  God — that  is  all.  No  harm  can  hap- 
pen to  us  there — no  evil  can  come  nigh  us.  For  God  is  infinite, 
all  power,  all  life.  Truth,  Love,  over  all,  and  all." 

She  closed  her  eyes  and  began,  as  she  said,  to  try  to  realize 
for  him  the  perfectness  of  his  spirit  in  God.  Eugene  sat  there 
trying  to  think  of  the  Lord's  prayer,  but  in  reality  thinking  of 
the  room,  the  cheap  prints,  the  homely  furniture,  her  ugliness, 
the  curiousness  of  his  being  there.  He,  Eugene  Witla,  being 
prayed  for!  What  would  Angela  think?  Why  was  this  woman 
old,  if  spirit  could  do  all  these  other  things?  Why  didn't  she 
make  herself  beautiful?  What  was  it  she  was  doing  now? 
Was  this  hypnotism,  mesmerism,  she  was  practicing?  He  re- 


7o8  THE    "GENIUS" 

membered  where  Mrs.  Eddy  had  especially  said  that  these  were 
not  to  be  practiced — could  not  be  in  Science.  No,  she  was  no 
doubt  sincere.  She  looked  it — talked  it.  She  believed  in  this 
beneficent  spirit.  Would  it  aid  as  the  psalm  said?  Would  it 
heal  this  ache?  Would  it  make  him  not  want  Suzanne  ever  any 
more  ?  Perhaps  that  was  evil  ?  Yes,  no  doubt  it  was.  Still — 
Perhaps  he  had  better  fix  his  mind  on  the  Lord's  Prayer.  Divin- 
ity could  aid  him  if  it  would.  Certainly  it  could.  No  doubt  of 
it.  There  was  nothing  impossible  to  this  vast  force  ruling  the 
universe.  Look  at  the  telephone,  wireless  telegraphy.  How 
about  the  stars  and  sun?  "He  shall  "give  his  angels  charge 
over  thee." 

"Now,"  said  Mrs.  Johns,  after  some  fifteen  minutes  of  silent 
meditation  had  passed — and  she  opened  her  eyes  smilingly — "we 
are  going  to  see  whether  we  are  not  going  to  be  better.  We  are 
going  to  feel  better,  because  we  are  going  to  do  better,  and  be- 
cause we  are  going  to  realize  that  nothing  can  hurt  an  idea  in 
God.  All  the  rest  is  illusions.  It  cannot  hold  us,  for  it  is  not 
real.  Think  good — God — and  you  are  good.  Think  evil  and 
you  are  evil,  but  it  has  no  reality  outside  your  own  thought. 
Remember  that."  She  talked  to  him  as  though  he  was  a  little 
child. 

He  went  out  into  the  snowy  night  where  the  wind  was  whirl- 
ing the  snow  in  picturesque  whirls,  buttoning  his  coat  about  him. 
The  cars  were  running  up  Broadway  as  usual.  Taxicabs  were 
scuttling  by.  There  were  people  forging  their  way  through 
the  snow,  that  ever-present  company  of  a  great  city.  There  were 
arc  lights  burning  clearly  blue  through  the  flying  flakes.  He 
wondered  as  he  walked  whether  this  would  do  him  any  good. 
Mrs.  Eddy  insisted  that  all  these  were  unreal,  he  thought — 
that  mortal  mind  had  evolved  something  which  was  not  in  ac- 
cord with  spirit — mortal  mind  "a  liar  and  the  father  of  it,"  he 
recalled  that  quotation.  Could  it  be  so?  Was  evil  unreal? 
Was  misery  only  a  belief?  Could  he  come  out  of  his  sense  of 
fear  and  shame  and  once  more  face  the  world?  He  boarded  a 
car  to  go  north.  At  Kingsbridge  he  made  his  way  thoughtfully 
to  his  room.  How  could  life  ever  be  restored  to  him  as  it  had 
been?  He  was  really  forty  years  of  age.  He  sat  down  in  his 
chair  near  his  lamp  and  took  up  his  book,  "Science  and  Health," 
and  opened  it  aimlessly.  Then  he  thought  for  curiosity's  sake 
he  would  see  where  he  had  opened  it — what  the  particular  page 
or  paragraph  his  eye  fell  on  had  to  say  to  him.  He  was  still 
intensely  superstitious.  He  looked,  and  here  was  this  paragraph 
growing  under  his  eyes: 


THE    '"GENIUS"  709 

"When  mortal  man  blends  his  thoughts  of  existence  with  the 
spiritual,  and  works  only  as  God  works,  he  will  no  longer  grope 
in  the  dark  and  cling  to  earth  because  he  has  not  tasted  heaven. 
Carnal  beliefs  defraud  us.  They  make  man  an  involuntary 
hypocrite — producing  evil  when  he  would  create  good,  forming 
deformity  when  he  would  outline  grace  and  beauty,  injuring 
those  whom  he  would  bless.  He  becomes  a  general  mis-creator, 
who  believes  he  is  a  semi-God.  His  touch  turns  hope  to  dust, 
the  dust  we  all  have  trod.  He  might  say  in  Bible  language, 
'The  good  that  I  would,  I  do  not,  but  evil,  which  I  would  not, 
I  do.1  " 

He  closed  the  book  and  meditated.  He  wished  he  might 
realize  this  thing  if  this  were  so.  Still  he  did  not  want  to  be- 
come a  religionist — a  religious  enthusiast.  How  silly  they  were. 
He  picked  up  his  daily  paper — the  Evening  Post — and  there  on 
an  inside  page  quoted  in  an  obscure  corner  was  a  passage  from 
a  poem  by  the  late  Francis  Thompson,  entitled  "The  Hound  of 
Heaven. "  It  began : 

"I  fled  Him,  down  the  nights  and  down  the  days; 
I  fled  Him,  down  the  arches  of  the  years  .  .  . 

The  ending  moved  him  strangely: 

Still  with  unhurrying  chase, 
And  unperturbed  face 
Deliberate  speed,  majestic  instancy 
Came  on  the  following  Feet, 
And  a  voice  above  their  beat — 
"Naught  shelters  thee,  who  wilt  not  shelter  Me." 

Did  this  man  really  believe  this?    Was  it  so? 

He  turned  back  to  his  book  and  read  on,  and  by  degrees  he 
came  half  to  believe  that  sin  and  evil  and  sickness  might  pos- 
sibly be  illusions — that  they  could  be  cured  by  aligning  one's 
self  intellectually  and  spiritually  with  this  Divine  Principle. 
He  wasn't  sure.  This  terrible  sense  of  wrong.  Could  he  give 
up  Suzanne  ?  Did  he  want  to  ?  No ! 

He  got  up  and  went  to  the  window  and  looked  out.  The 
snow  was  still  blowing. 

"Give  her  up !  Give  her  up !"  And  Angela  in  such  a  precari- 
ous condition.  What  a  devil  of  a  hole  he  was  in,  anyway! 
Well,  he  would  go  and  see  her  in  the  morning.  He  would  at 
least  be  kind.  He  would  see  her  through  this  thing.  He  lay 
down  and  tried  to  sleep,  but  somehow  sleep  never  came  to  him 
right  any  more.  He  was  too  wearied,  too  distressed,  too  wrought 
up.  till  he  slept  a  little,  and  that  was  all  he  could  hope  for  in 
these  days. 


CHAPTER   XXVII 

IT  was  while  he  was  in  this  state,  some  two  months  later, 
that  the  great  event,  so  far  as  Angela  was  concerned,  came 
about,  and  in  it,  of  necessity,  he  was  compelled  to  take  part. 
Angela  was  in  her  room,  cosily  and  hygienically  furnished,  over- 
looking the  cathedral  grounds  at  Morningside  Heights,  and 
speculating  hourly  what  her  fate  was  to  be.  She  had  never 
wholly  recovered  from  the  severe  attack  of  rheumatism  which 
she  had  endured  the  preceding  summer  and,  because  of  her 
worries  since,  in  her  present  condition  was  pale  and  weak  though 
she  was  not  ill.  The  head  visiting  obstetrical  surgeon,  Dr. 
Lambert,  a  lean,  gray  man  of  sixty-five  years  of  age,  with  griz- 
zled cheeks,  whose  curly  gray  hair,  wide,  humped  nose  and  keen 
gray  eyes  told  of  the  energy  and  insight  and  ability  that  had 
placed  him  where  he  \vas,  took  a  slight  passing  fancy  to  her, 
for  she  seemed  to  him  one  of  those  plain,  patient  little  women 
whose  lives  are  laid  in  sacrificial  lines.  He  liked  her  brisk, 
practical,  cheery  disposition  in  the  face  of  her  condition,  which 
was  serious,  and  which  was  so  noticeable  to  strangers.  Angela 
had  naturally  a  bright,  cheery  face,  when  she  was  not  depressed 
or  quarrelsome.  It  was  the  outward  sign  of  her  ability  to  say 
witty  and  clever  things,  and  she  had  never  lost  the  desire  to 
have  things  done  efficiently  and  intelligently  about  her  wherever 
she  was.  The  nurse,  Miss  De  Sale,  a  solid,  phlegmatic  person 
of  thirty-five,  admired  her  spunk  and  courage  and  took  a  great 
fancy  to  her  also  because  she  was  lightsome,  buoyant  and  hope- 
ful in  the  face  of  what  was  really  a  very  serious  situation.  The 
general  impression  of  the  head  operating  surgeon,  the  house  sur- 
geon and  the  nurse  was  that  her  heart  was  weak  and  that  her 
kidneys  might  be  affected  by  her  condition.  Angela  had  some- 
how concluded  after  talks  with  Myrtle  that  Christian  Science, 
as  demonstrated  by  its  practitioners,  might  help  her  through  this 
crisis,  though  she  had  no  real  faith  in  it.  Eugene  would  come 
round,  she  thought,  also,  for  Myrtle  was  having  him  treated 
absently,  and  he  was  trying  to  read  the  book,  she  said.  There 
would  be  a  reconciliation  between  them  when  the  baby  came — 
because — because Well,  because  children  were  so  win- 
ning! Eugene  was  really  not  hard-hearted — he  was  just  in- 
fatuated. He  had  been  ensnared  by  a  siren.  He  would  get 
over  it. 

710 


THE   "GENIUS"  711 

Miss  De  Sale  let  her  hair  down  in  braids,  Gretchen  style, 
and  fastened  great  pink  bows  of  ribbon  in  them.  As  her  con- 
dition became  more  involved,  only  the  lightest  morning  gowns 
were  given  her — soft,  comfortable  things  in  which  she  sat  about 
speculating  practically  about  the  future.  She  had  changed  from 
a  lean  shapeliness  to  a  swollen,  somewhat  uncomely  object,  but 
she  made  the  best  of  a  bad  situation.  Eugene  saw  her  and  felt 
sorry.  It  was  the  end  of  winter  now,  with  snow  blowing  gaily 
or  fiercely  about  the  windows,  and  the  park  grounds  opposite 
were  snow-white.  She  could  see  the  leafless  line  of  sentinel 
poplars  that  bordered  the  upper  edges  of  Morningside.  She 
was  calm,  patient,  hopeful,  while  the  old  obstetrician  shook  his 
head  gravely  to  the  house  surgeon. 

"We  shall  have  to  be  very  careful.  I  shall  take  charge  of  the 
actual  birth  myself.  See  if  you  can't  build  up  her  strength. 
We  can  only  hope  that  the  head  is  small." 

Angela's  littleness  and  courage  appealed  to  him.  For  once 
in  a  great  many  cases  he  really  felt  sorry. 

The  house  surgeon  did  as  directed.  Angela  was  given  spe- 
cially prepared  food  and  drink.  She  was  fed  frequently.  She 
was  made  to  keep  perfectly  quiet. 

"Her  heart,"  the  house  surgeon  reported  to  his  superior,'  "I 
don't  like  that.  It's  weak  and  irregular.  I  think  there's  a 
slight  lesion." 

"We  can  only  hope  for  the  best,"  said  the  other  solemnly. 
"We'll  try  and  do  without  ether." 

Eugene  in  his  peculiar  mental  state  was  not  capable  of  real- 
izing the  pathos  of  all  this.  He  was  alienated  temperamentally 
and  emotionally.  Thinking  that  he  cared  for  his  wife  dearly, 
the  nurse  and  the  house  surgeon  were  for  not  warning  him. 
They  did  not  want  to  frighten  him.  He  asked  several  times 
whether  he  could  be  present  during  the  delivery,  but  they  stated 
that  it  would  be  dangerous  and  trying.  The  nurse  asked  An- 
gela if  she  had  not  better  advise  him  to  stay  away.  Angela  did, 
but  Eugene  felt  that  in  spite  of  his  alienation,  she  needed  him. 
Besides,  he  was  curious.  He  thought  Angela  would  stand  it 
better  if  he  were  near,  and  now  that  the  ordeal  was  drawing 
nigh,  he  was  beginning  to  understand  how  desperate  it  might  be 
and  to  think  it  was  only  fair  that  he  should  assist  her.  Some 
of  the  old  pathetic  charm  of  her  littleness  was  coming  back  to 
him.  She  might  not  live.  She  would  have  to  suffer  much.  She 
had  meant  no  real  evil  to  him — only  to  hold  him.  Oh,  the  bit- 
terness and  the  pathos  of  this  welter  of  earthly  emotions.  Why 
should  they  be  so  tangled? 


712  THE   "GENIUS" 

The  time  drew  very  near,  and  Angela  was  beginning  to  suffer 
severe  pains.  Those  wonderful  processes  of  the  all-mother, 
which  bind  the  coming  life  in  a  cradle  of  muscles  and  ligaments 
were  practically  completed  and  were  now  relaxing  their  ten- 
dencies in  one  direction  to  enforce  them  in  another.  Angela 
suffered  at  times  severely  from  straining  ligaments.  Her  hands 
were  clenched  desperately,  her  face  would  become  deathly  pale. 
She  would  cry.  Eugene  was  with  her  on  a  number  of  these 
occasions  and  it  drove  home  to  his  consciousness  the  subtlety  and 
terror  of  this  great  scheme  of  reproduction,  which  took  all 
women  to  the  door  of  the  grave,  in  order  that  this  mortal  scheme 
of  things  might  be  continued.  He  began  to  think  that  there 
might  be  something  in  the  assertion  of  the  Christian  Science 
leaders  that  it  was  a  lie  and  an  illusion,  a  terrible  fitful  fever 
outside  the  rational  consciousness  of  God.  He  went  to  the  li- 
brary one  day  and  got  down  a  book  on  obstetrics,  which  cov- 
ered the  principles  and  practice  of  surgical  delivery.  He  saw 
there  scores  of  pictures  drawn  very  carefully  of  the  child  in 
various  positions  in  the  womb — all  the  strange,  peculiar,  flower- 
like  positions  it  could  take,  folded  in  upon  itself  like  a  little 
half-formed  petal.  The  pictures  were  attractive,  some  of  them 
beautiful,  practical  as  they  were.  They  appealed  to  his  fancy. 
They  showed  the  coming  baby  perfect,  but  so  small,  its  head  now 
in  one  position,  now  in  another,  its  little  arms  twisted  about  in 
odd  places,  but  always  delightfully,  suggestively  appealing. 
From  reading  here  and  there  in  the  volume,  he  learned  that  the 
great  difficulty  was  the  head — the  delivery  of  that.  It  appeared 
that  no  other  difficulty  really  confronted  the  obstetrician.  How 
was  that  to  be  got  out?  If  the  head  were  large,  the  mother  old, 
the  walls  of  the  peritoneal  cavity  tight  or  hard,  a  natural  delivery 
might  be  impossible.  There  were  wrhole  chapters  on  Craniotomy, 
Cephalotripsy,  which  in  plain  English  means  crushing  the  head 
with  an  instrument.  .  .  . 

One  chapter  was  devoted  to  the  Caesarian  operation,  with  a 
description  of  its  tremendous  difficulties  and  a  long  disquisition 
on  the  ethics  of  killing  the  child  to  save  the  mother,  or  the 
mother  to  save  the  child  with  their  relative  values  to  society 
indicated.  Think  of  it — a  surgeon  sitting  in  the  seat  of  judge 
and  executioner  at  the  critical  moment !  Ah,  life  with  its  petty 
laws  did  not  extend  here.  Here  we  came  back  to  the  conscience 
of  man  which  Mrs.  Eddy  maintained  was  a  reflection  of  imma- 
nent mind.  If  God  were  good,  He  would  speak  through  that — 
He  was  speaking  through  it.  This  surgeon  referred  to  that 


THE   "GENIUS"  713 

inmost  consciousness  of  supreme  moral  law,  which  alone  could 
guide  the  practitioner  in  this  dreadful  hour. 

Then  he  told  of  what 'implements  were  necessary,  how  many 
assistants  (two),  how  many  nurses  (four),  the  kinds  of  band- 
ages, needles,  silk  and  catgut  thread,  knives,  clamp  dilators, 
rubber  gloves.  He  showed  how  the  cut  was  to  be  made — when, 
where.  Eugene  closed  the  book,  frightened.  He  got  up  and 
walked  out  in  the  air,  a  desire  to  hurry  up  to  Angela  impelling 
him.  She  was  weak,  he  knew  that.  She  had  complained  of  her 
heart.  Her  muscles  were  probably  set.  Supposing  these  prob- 
lems, any  one  of  them,  should  come  in  connection  with  her. 
He  did  not  wish  her  to  die. 

He  had  said  he  had — yes,  but  he  did  not  want  to  be  a  mur- 
derer. No,  no!  Angela  had  been  good  to  him.  She  had 
worked  for  him.  Why,  God  damn  it,  she  had  actually  suffered 
for  him  in  times  past.  He  had  treated  her  badly,  very  badly, 
and  now  in  her  pathetic  little  way  she  had  put  herself  in  this 
terrific  position.  It  was  her  fault,  to  be  sure  it  was.  She  had 
been  trying  as  she  always  had  to  hold  him  against  his  will,  but 
then  could  he  really  blame  her?  It  wasn't  a  crime  for  her  to 
want  him  to  love  her.  They  were  just  mis-mated.  He  had 
tried  to  be  kind  in  marrying  her,  and  he  hadn't  been  kind  at  all. 
It  had  merely  produced  unrest,  dissatisfaction,  unhappiness  for 
him  and  for  her,  and  now  this — this  danger  of  death  through 
pain,  a  weak  heart,  defective  kidneys,  a  Caesarian  operation. 
Why,  she  couldn't  stand  anything  like  that.  There  was  no 
use  talking  about  it.  She  wasn't  strong  enough — she  was  too 
old. 

He  thought  of  Christian  Science  practitioners,  of  how  they 
might  save  her — of  some  eminent  surgeon  who  would  know 
how  without  the  knife.  How?  How?  If  these  Christian 
Scientists  could  only  think  her  through  a  thing  like  this — he 
wouldn't  be  sorry.  He  would  be  glad,  for  her  sake,  if  not  his 
own.  He  might  give  up  Suzanne — he  might — he  might.  Oh, 
why  should  that  thought  intrude  on  him  now? 

When  he  reached  the  hospital  it  was  three  o'clock  in  the 
afternoon,  and  he  had  been  there  for  a  little  while  in  the 
morning  when  she  was  comparatively  all  right.  She  was  much 
worse.  The  straining  pains  in  her  side  which  she  had  com- 
plained of  were  worse  and  her  face  was  alternately  flushed  and 
pale,  sometimes  convulsed  a  little.  Myrtle  was  there  talking 
with  her,  and  Eugene  stood  about  nervously,  wondering  what 
he  should  do — what  he  could  do.  Angela  saw  his  worry.  In 


714  THE    "GENIUS" 

spite  of  her  own  condition  she  was  sorry  for  him.  She  knew 
that  this  would  cause  him  pain,  for  he  was  not  hard-hearted, 
and  it  was  his  first  sign  of  relenting.  She  smiled  at  him, 
thinking  that  maybe  he  would  come  round  and  change  his  atti- 
tude entirely.  Myrtle  kept  reassuring  her  that  all  would  be 
well  with  her.  The  nurse  said  to  her  and  to  the  house  doctor 
who  came  in,  a  young  man  of  twenty-eight,  with  keen,  quizzi- 
cal eyes,  whose  sandy  hair  and  ruddy  complexion  bespoke  a 
fighting  disposition,  that  she  was  doing  nicely. 

"No  bearing  down  pains?"  he  asked,  smiling  at  Angela,  his 
even  white  teeth  showing  in  two  gleaming  rows. 

"I  don't  know  what  kind  they  are,  doctor,"  she  replied. 
"I've  had  all  kinds." 

"You'll  know  them  fast  enough,"  he  replied,  mock  cheerfully. 
"They're  not  like  any  other  kind." 

He  went  away  and  Eugene  followed  him. 

"How  is  she  doing?"  he  asked,  when  they  were  out  in  the 
hall. 

"Well  enough,  considering.  She's  not  very  strong,  you  know. 
I  have  an  idea  she  is  going  to  be  all  right.  Dr.  Lambert  will 
be  here  in  a  little  while.  You  had  better  talk  to  him." 

The  house  surgeon  did  not  want  to  lie.  He  thought  Eugene 
ought  to  be  told.  Dr.  Lambert  was  of  the  same  opinion,  but 
he  wanted  to  wait  until  the  last,  until  he  could  judge  approxi- 
mately correctly. 

He  came  at  five,  when  it  was  already  dark  outside,  and 
looked  at  Angela  with  his  grave,  kindly  eyes.  He  felt  her 
pulse,  listened  to  her  heart  with  his  stethoscope. 

"Do  you  think  I  shall  be  all  right,  doctor?"  asked  Angela 
faintly. 

"To  be  sure,  to  be  sure,"  he  replied  softly.  "Little  woman, 
big  courage."  He  smoothed  her  hand. 

He  walked  out  and  Eugene  followed  him. 

"Well,  doctor,"  he  said.  For  the  first  time  for  months  Eu- 
gene was  thinking  of  something  besides  his  lost  fortune  and 
Suzanne. 

"I  think  it  advisable  to  tell  you,  Mr.  Witla,"  said  the  old 
surgeon,  "that  your  wife  is  in  a  serious  condition.  I  don't  want 
to  alarm  you  unnecessarily — it  may  all  come  out  very  satis- 
factorily. I  have  no  positive  reason  to  be  sure  that  it  will  not. 
She  is  pretty  old  to  have  a  child.  Her  muscles  are  set.  The 
principal  thing  we  have  to  fear  in  her  case  is  some  untoward 
complication  with  her  kidneys.  There  is  always  difficulty  in  the 
delivery  of  the  head  in  women  of  her  age.  It  may  be  neces- 


THE   '"GENIUS"  715 

sary  to  sacrifice  the  child.  I  can't  be  sure.  The  Caesarian 
operation  is  something  I  never  care  to  think  about.  It  is  rarely 
used,  and  it  isn't  always  successful.  Every  care  that  can  be 
taken  will  be  taken.  I  should  like  to  have  you  understand  the 
conditions.  Your  consent  will  be  asked  before  any  serious  steps 
are  taken.  Your  decision  will  have  to  be  quick,  however,  when 
the  time  comes." 

"I  can  tell  you  now,  doctor,  what  my  decision  will  be,"  said 
Eugene  realizing  fully  the  gravity  of  the  situation.  For  the 
time  being,  his  old  force  and  dignity  were  restored.  "Save 
her  life  if  you  can  by  any  means  that  you  can.  I  have  no  other 
wish." 

"Thanks,"  said  the  surgeon.     "We  will  do  the  best  we  can." 

There  were  hours  after  that  when  Eugene,  sitting  by  Angela, 
saw  her  endure  pain  which  he  never  dreamed  it  was  possible  for 
any  human  being  to  endure.  He  saw  her  draw  herself  up  rigid 
time  and  again,  the  color  leaving  her  face,  the  perspiration 
breaking  out  on  her  forehead  only  to  relax  and  flush  and  groan 
without  really  crying  out.  He  saw,  strange  to  relate,  that  she 
was  no  baby  like  himself,  whimpering  over  every  little  ill,  but  a 
representative  of  some  great  creative  force  which  gave  her  power 
at  once  to  suffer  greatly  and  to  endure  greatly.  She  could  not 
smile  any  more.  That  was  not  possible.  She  was  in  a  welter 
of  suffering,  unbroken,  astonishing.  Myrtle  had  gone  home  to 
her  dinner,  but  promised  to  return  later.  Miss  De  Sale  came, 
bringing  another  nurse,  and  while  Eugene  was  out  of  the  room, 
Angela  was  prepared  for  the  final  ordeal.  She  was  arrayed  in 
the  usual  open  back  hospital  slip  and  white  linen  leggings.  Un- 
der Doctor  Lambert's  orders  an  operating  table  was  got  ready 
in  the  operating  room  on  the  top  floor  and  a  wheel  table  sta- 
tioned outside  the  door,  ready  to  remove  her  if  necessary.  He 
had  left  word  that  at  the  first  evidence  of  the  genuine  child- 
bearing  pain,  which  the  nurse  understood  so  well,  he  was  to 
be  called.  The  house  surgeon  was  to  be  in  immediate  charge 
of  the  case. 

Eugene  wondered  in  this  final  hour  at  the  mechanical,  prac- 
tical, business-like  manner  in  which  all  these  tragedies — the 
hospital  was  full  of  women — were  taken.  Miss  De  Sale  went 
about  her  duties  calm,  smiling,  changing  the  pillows  occa- 
sionally for  Angela,  straightening  the  disordered  bedclothes,  ad- 
justing the  window  curtains,  fixing  her  own  lace  cap  or  apron 
before  the  mirror  which  was  attached  to  the  dresser,  or  before 
the  one  that  was  set  in  the  closet  door,  and  doing  other  little 
things  without  number.  She  took  no  interest  in  Eugene's  tense 


716  THE    "GENIUS' 

attitude,  or  Myrtle's  when  she  was  there,  but  went  in  and  out, 
talking,  jesting  with  other  nurses,  doing  whatever  she  had  to 
do  quite  undisturbed. 

"Isn't  there  anything  that  can  be  done  to  relieve  her  of 
this  pain?"  Eugene  asked  wearily  at  one  point.  His  own  nerves 
were  torn.  "She  can't  stand  anything  like  that.  She  hasn't 
the  strength." 

She  shook  her  head  placidly.  "There  isn't  a  thing  that  any- 
one can  do.  We  can't  give  her  an  opiate.  It  stops  the  process. 
She  just  has  to  bear  it.  All  women  do." 

"All  women,"  thought  Eugene.  Good  God !  Did  all  women 
go  through  a  siege  like  this  every  time  a  child  was  born?  There 
were  two  billion  people  on  the  earth  now.  Had  there  been 
two  billion  such  scenes?  Had  he  come  this  way? — Angela? 
every  child?  What  a  terrible  mistake  she  had  made — so  un- 
necessary, so  foolish.  It  was  too  late  now,  though,  to  speculate 
concerning  this.  She  was  suffering.  She  was  agonizing. 

The  house  surgeon  came  back  after  a  time  to  look  at  her 
condition,  but  was  not  at  all  alarmed  apparently.  He  nodded 
his  head  rather  reassuringly  to  Miss  De  Sale,  who  stood  beside 
him.  "I  think  she's  doing  all  right,"  he  said. 

"I  think  so,  too,"  she  replied. 

Eugene  wondered  how  they  could  say  this.  She  was  suf- 
fering horribly. 

"I'm  going  into  Ward  A  for  an  hour,"  said  the  doctor.  "If 
any  change  comes  you  can  get  me  there." 

"What  change  could  come,"  asked  Eugene  of  himself,  "any 
worse  than  had  already  appeared?  He  was  thinking  of  the 
drawings,  though,  he  had  seen  in  the  book — wondering  if  An- 
gela would  have  to  be  assisted  in  some  of  the  grim,  mechanical 
ways  indicated  there.  They  illustrated  to  him  the  deadly  possi- 
bilities of  what  might  follow. 

About  midnight  the  expected  change,  v/hich  Eugene  in  ago- 
nized sympathy  was  awaiting,  arrived.  Myrtle  had  not  re- 
turned. She  had  been  waiting  to  hear  from  Eugene.  Although 
Angela  had  been  groaning  before,  pulling  herself  tense  at  times, 
twisting  in  an  aimless,  unhappy  fashion,  now  she  seemed  to 
spring  up  and  fall  as  though  she  had  fainted.  A  shriek  accom- 
panied the  movement,  and  then  another  and  another.  He  rushed 
to  the  door,  but  the  nurse  was  there  to  meet  him. 

"It's  here,"  she  said  quietly.  She  went  to  a  phone  outside 
and  called  for  Dr.  Willets.  A  second  nurse  from  some  other 
room  came  in  and  stood  beside  her.  In  spite  of  the  knotted 
cords  on  Angela's  face,  the  swollen  veins,  the  purple  hue,  they 


THE    "GENIUS"  717 

were  calm.  Eugene  could  scarcely  believe  it,  but  he  made  an 
intense  effort  to  appear  calm  himself.  So  this  was  childbirth! 

In  a  few  moments  Dr.  Willets  came  in.  He  also  was  calm, 
business  like,  energetic.  He  was  dressed  in  a  black  suit  and 
white  linen  jacket,  but  took  that  off,  leaving  the  room  as  he 
did  so,  and  returned  with  his  sleevs  rolled  up  and  his  body 
incased  in  a  long  white  apron,  such  as  Eugene  had  seen  butchers 
wear.  He  went  over  to  Angela  and  began  working  with  her, 
saying  something  to  the  nurse  beside  him  which  Eugene  did  not 
hear.  He  could  not  look — he  dared  not  at  first. 

At  the  fourth  or  fifth  convulsive  shriek,  a  second  doctor  came 
in,  a  young  man  of  Willets'  age,  and  dressed  as  he  was,  who 
also  took  his  place  beside  him.  Eugene  had  never  seen  him  be- 
fore. "Is  it  a  case  of  forceps  ?"  he  asked. 

"I  can't  tell,"  said  the  other.  "Dr.  Lambert  is  handling  this 
personally.  He  ought  to  be  here  by  now." 

There  was  a  step  in  the  hall  and  the  senior  physician  or  ob- 
stetrician had  entered.  In  the  lower  hall  he  had  removed  his 
great  coat  and  fur  gloves.  He  was  dressed  in  his  street  clothes, 
but  after  looking  at  Angela,  feeling  her  heart  and  temples,  he 
went  out  and  changed  his  coat  for  an  apron,  like  the  others. 
His  sleeves  were  rolled  up,  but  he  did  not  immediately  do  any- 
thing but  watch  the  house  surgeon,  whose  hands  were  bloody. 

"Can't  they  give  her  chloroform?"  asked  Eugene,  to  whom  no 
one  was  paying  any  attention,  of  Miss  De  Sale. 

She  scarcely  heard,  but  shook  her  head.  She  was  busy  danc- 
ing attendance  on  her  very  far  removed  superiors,  the  physicians. 

"I  would  advise  you  to  leave  the  room,"  said  Dr.  Lambert 
to  Eugene,  coming  over  near  him.  "You  can  do  nothing  here. 
You  will  be  of  no  assistance  whatsoever.  You  may  be  in  the 
way." 

Eugene  left,  but  it  was  only  to  pace  agonizedly  up  and  down 
the  hall.  He  thought  of  all  the  things  that  had  passed  be- 
tween him  and  Angela — the  years — the  struggles.  All  at  once 
he  thought  of  Myrtle,  and  decided  to  call  her  up — she  wanted  to 
be  there.  Then  he  decided  for  the  moment  he  would  not.  She 
could  do  nothing.  Then  he  thought  of  the  Christian  Science 
practitioner.  Myrtle  could  get  her  to  give  Angela  absent  treat- 
ment. Anything,  anything — it  was  a  shame  that  she  should 
suffer  so. 

"Myrtle,"  he  said  nervously  over  the  phone,  when  he  reached 
her,  "this  is  Eugene.  Angela  is  suffering  terribly.  The  birth 
is  on.  Can't  you  get  Mrs.  Johns  to  help  her?  It's  terrible!" 

"Certainly,  Eugene.     I'll  come  right  down.     Don't  worry." 


7i8  THE   "GENIUS'1 

He  hung  up  the  receiver  and  walked  up  and  down  the  hall 
again.  He  could  hear  mumbled  voices — he  could  hear  muf- 
fled screams.  A  nurse,  not  Miss  De  Sale,  came  out  and  wheeled 
in  the  operating  table. 

"Are  they  going  to  operate  ?"  he  asked  feverishly.  "I'm  Mr. 
With." 

"I  don't  think  so.  I  don't  know.  Dr.  Lambert  wants  her 
to  be  taken  to  the  operating  room  in  case  it  is  necessary." 

They  wheeled  her  out  after  a  few  moments  and  on  to  the  ele- 
vator which  led  to  the  floor  above.  Her  face  was  slightly 
covered  while  she  was  being  so  transferred,  and  those  who  were 
around  prevented  him  from  seeing  just  how  it  was  with  her,  but 
because  of  her  stillness,  he  wondered,  and  the  nurse  said  that  a 
very  slight  temporary  opiate  had  been  administered — not  enough 
to  affect  the  operation,  if  it  were  found  necessary.  Eugene 
stood  by  dumbly,  terrified.  He  stood  in  the  hall,  outside  the 
operating  room,  half  afraid  to  enter.  The  head  surgeon's  warn- 
ing came  back  to  him,  and,  anyhow,  what  good  could  he  do? 
He  walked  far  down  the  dim-lit  length  of  the  hall  before  him, 
wondering,  and  looked  out  on  a  space  where  was  nothing  but 
snow.  In  the  distance  a  long  lighted  train  was  winding  about  a 
high  trestle  like  a  golden  serpent.  There  were  automobiles 
honking  and  pedestrians  laboring  along  in  the  snow.  What  a 
tangle  life  was,  he  thought.  What  a  pity.  Here  a  little  while 
ago,  he  wanted  Angela  to  die,  and  now, — God  Almighty,  that 
was  her  voice  groaning!  He  would  be  punished  for  his  evil 
thoughts — yes,  he  would.  His  sins,  all  these  terrible  deeds 
would  be  coming  home  to  him.  They  were  coming  home  to 
him  now.  What  a  tragedy  his  career  was!  What  a  failure! 
Hot  tears  welled  up  into  his  eyes,  his  lower  lip  trembled,  not 
for  himself,  but  for  Angela.  He  was  so  sorry  all  at  once.  He 
shut  it  all  back.  No,  by  God,  he  wouldn't  cry!  What  good 
were  tears?  It  was  for  Angela  his  pain  was,  and  tears  would 
not  help  her  now. 

Thoughts  of  Suzanne  came  to  him — Mrs.  Dale,  Colfax,  but 
he  shut  them  out.  If  they  could  see  him  now!  Then  another 
muffled  scream  and  he  walked  quickly  back.  He  couldn't 
stand  this. 

He  didn't  go  in,  however.  Instead  he  listened  intently,  hear- 
ing something  which  sounded  like  gurgling,  choking  breathing. 
Was  that  Angela? 

"The  low  forceps" — it  was  Dr.  Lambert's  voice. 

"The  high  forceps."  It  was  his  voice  again.  Something 
clinked  like  metal  in  a  bowl. 


THE   "GEN  I.US  "  719 

"It  can't  be  done  this  way,  I'm  afraid,"  it  was  Dr.  Lam- 
bert's voice  again.  "We'll  have  to  operate.  I  hate  to  do  it, 
too." 

A  nurse  came  out  to  see  if  Eugene  were  near.  "You  had 
better  go  down  into  the  waiting  room,  Mr.  Witla,"  she  cau- 
tioned. "They'll  be  bringing  her  out  pretty  soon.  It  won't  be 
long  now." 

"No,"  he  said  all  at  once,  "I  want  to  see  for  myself."  He 
walked  into  the  room  where  Angela  was  now  lying  on  the 
operating  table  in  the  centre  of  the  room.  A  six-globed  electro- 
lier blazed  close  overhead.  At  her  head  was  Dr.  Willets,  ad- 
ministering the  anaesthetic.  On  the  right  side  was  Dr.  Lam- 
bert, his  hands  encased  in  rubber  gloves,  bloody,  totally  uncon- 
scious of  Eugene,  holding  a  scalpel.  One  of  the  two  nurses 
was  near  Angela's  feet,  officiating  at  a  little  table  of  knives, 
bowls,  water,  sponges,  bandages.  On  the  left  of  the  table  was 
Miss  De  Sale.  Her  hands  were  arranging  some  cloths  at  the 
side  of  Angela's  body.  At  her  side,  opposite  Dr.  Lambert,  was 
another  surgeon  whom  Eugene  did  not  know.  Angela  was 
breathing  stertorously.  She  appeared  to  be  unconscious.  Her 
face  was  covered  with  cloths  and  a  rubber  mouth  piece  or  cone. 
Eugene  cut  his  palms  with  his  nails. 

So  they  have  to  operate,  after  all,  he  thought.  She  is  as  bad 
as  that.  The  Caesarian  operation.  Then  they  couldn't  even 
get  the  child  from  her  by  killing  it.  Seventy-five  per  cent,  of 
the  cases  recorded  were  successful,  so  the  book  said,  but  how 
many  cases  were  not  recorded.  Was  Dr.  Lambert  a  great 
surgeon  ?  Could  Angela  stand  ether — with  her  weak  heart? 

He  stood  there  looking  at  this  wonderful  picture  while  Dr. 
Lambert  quickly  washed  his  hands.  He  saw  him  take  a  small 
gleaming  steel  knife — bright  as  polished  silver.  The  old  man's 
hands  were  encased  in  rubber  gloves,  which  looked  bluish  white 
under  the  light.  Angela's  exposed  flesh  was  the  color  of  a  candle. 
He  bent  over  her. 

"Keep  her  breathing  normal  if  you  can,"  he  said  to  the  young 
doctor.  "If  she  wakes  give  her  ether.  Doctor,  you'd  better 
look  after  the  arteries." 

He  cut  softly  a  little  cut  just  below  the  centre  of  the  abdomen 
apparently,  and  Eugene  saw  little  trickling  streams  of  blood 
spring  where  his  blade  touched.  It  did  not  seem  a  great  cut. 
A  nurse  was  sponging  away  the  blood  as  fast  as  it  flowed.  As 
he  cut  again,  the  membrane  that  underlies  the  muscles  of  the 
abdomen  and  protects  the  intestines  seemed  to  spring  into  view. 

"I  don't  want  to  cut  too  much,"  said  the  surgeon  calmly — 


720  THE    "GENIUS" 

almost  as  though  he  were  talking  to  himself.  "These  intestines 
are  apt  to  become  unmanageable.  If  you  just  lift  up  the  ends, 
doctor.  That's  right.  The  sponge,  Miss  Wood.  Now,  if  we 
can  just  cut  here  enough" — he  was  cutting  again  like  an  honest 
carpenter  or  cabinet  worker. 

He  dropped  the  knife  he  held  into  Miss  Wood's  bowl  of 
water.  He  reached  into  the  bleeding,  wound,  constantly  sponged 
by  the  nurse,  exposing  something.  What  was  that?  Eugene's 
heart  jerked.  He  was  reaching  down  now  in  there  with  his 
middle  finger — his  fore  and  middle  fingers  afterwards,  and 
saying,  "I  don't  find  the  leg.  Let's  see.  Ah,  yes.  Here  we 
have  it!" 

"Can  I  move  the  head  a  little  for  you,  doctor?"  It  was 
the  young  doctor  at  his  left  talking. 

"Careful!  Careful!  It's  bent  under  in  the  region  of  the 
coccyx.  I  have  it  now,  though.  Slowly,  doctor,  look  out  for 
the  placenta." 

Something  was  coming  up  out  of  this  horrible  cavity,  which 
was  trickling  with  blood  from  the  cut.  It  was  queer — a  little 
foot,  a  leg,  a  body,  a  head. 

"As  God  is  my  judge,"  said  Eugene  to  himself,  his  eyes  brim- 
ming again. 

"The  placenta,  doctor.  Look  after  the  peritoneum,  Miss 
Wood.  It's  alive,  all  right.  How  is  her  pulse,  Miss  De 
Sale?" 

"A  little  weak,  doctor." 

"Use  less  ether.  There,  now  we  have  it!  We'll  put  that 
back.  Sponge.  We'll  have  to  sew  this  afterwards,  Willets. 
I  won't  trust  this  to  heal  alone.  Some  surgeons  think  it  will, 
but  I  mistrust  her  recuperative  power.  Three  or  four  stitches, 
anyhow." 

They  were  working  like  carpenters,  cabinet  workers,  elec- 
tricians. Angela  might  have  been  a  lay  figure  for  all  they 
seemed  to  care.  And  yet  there  was  a  tenseness  here,  a  great 
hurry  through  slow  sure  motion.  "The  less  haste,  the  more 
speed,"  popped  into  Eugene's  mind — the  old  saw.  He  stared 
as  if  this  were  all  a  dream — a  nightmare.  It  might  have  been 
a  great  picture  like  Rembrandt's  "The  Night  Watch."  One 
young  doctor,  the  one  he  did  not  know,  was  holding  aloft  a 
purple  object  by  the  foot.  It  might  have  been  a  skinned  rabbit, 
but  Eugene's  horrified  eyes  realized  that  it  was  his  child — An- 
gela's child — the  thing  all  this  horrible  struggle  and  suffering 
was  about.  It  was  discolored,  impossible,  a  myth,  a  monster. 
He  could  scarcely  believe  his  eyes,  and  yet  the  doctor  was 


THE   "GENIUS"  721 

striking  it  on  the  back  with  his  hand,  looking  at  it  curiously. 
At  the  same  moment  came  a  faint  cry— not  a  cry,  either— only 
a  faint,  queer  sound. 

"She's  awfully  little,  but  I  guess  she'll  make  out."  It  was 
Dr.  Willets  talking  of  the  baby.  Angela's  baby.  Now  the 
nurse  had  it.  That  was  Angela's  flesh  they  had  been  cutting. 
That  was  Angela's  wound  they  were  sewing.  This  wasn't  life. 
It  was  a  nightmare.  He  was  insane  and  being  bedeviled  by 
spirits. 

"Now,  doctor,  I  guess  that  will  keep.  The  blankets,  Miss  De 
Sale.  You  can  take  her  away." 

They  were  doing  lots  of  things  to  Angela,  fastening  bandages 
about  her,  removing  the  cone  from  her  mouth,  changing  her  po- 
sition back  to  one  of  lying  flat,  preparing  to  bathe  her,  moving 
her  to  the  rolling  table,  wheeling  her  out  while  she  moaned  un- 
conscious under  ether. 

Eugene  could  scarcely  stand  the  sickening,  stertorous  breath- 
ing. It  was  such  a  strange  sound  to  come  from  her — as  if  her  un- 
conscious soul  were  crying.  And  the  child  was  crying,  too, 
healthily. 

"Oh,  God,  what  a  life,  what  a  life!"  he  thought.  To  think 
that  things  should  have  to  come  this  way.  Death,  incisions! 
unconsciousness!  pain!  Could  she  live?  Would  she?  And 
now  he  was  a  father. 

He  turned  and  there  was  the  nurse  holding  this  littlest  girl 
on  a  white  gauze  blanket  or  cushion.  She  was  doing  some- 
thing to  it — rubbing  oil  on  it.  It  was  a  pink  child  now,  like  any 
other  baby. 

"That  isn't  so  bad,  is  it?"  she  asked  consolingly.  She  wanted 
to  restore  Eugene  to  a  sense  of  the  commonplace.  He  was 
so  distracted  looting. 

Eugene  stared  at  it.  A  strange  feeling  came  over  him.  Some- 
thing went  up  and  down  his  body  from  head  to  toe,  doing 
something  to  him.  It  was  a  nervous,  titillating,  pinching  feel- 
ing. He  touched  the  child.  He  looked  at  its  hands,  its  face. 
It  looked  like  Angela.  Yes,  it  did.  It  was  his  child.  It  was 
hers.  Would  she  live?  Would  he  do  better?  Oh,  God,  to 
have  this  thrust  at  him  now,  and  yet  it  was  his  child.  How 
could  he?  Poor  little  thing.  If  Angela  died — if  Angela  died, 
he  would  have  this  and  nothing  else,  this  little  girl  out  of  all  her 
long,  dramatic  struggle.  If  she  died,  came  this.  To  do  what 
to  him?  To  guide?  To  strengthen?  To  change?  He  could 
not  say.  Only,  somehow,  in  spite  of  himself,  it  was  beginning 
to  appeal  to  him.  It  was  the  child  of  a  storm.  And  Angela,  so 


722  THE   "GENIUS" 

near  him  now — would  she  ever  live  to  see  it?  There  she  was 
unconscious,  numb,  horribly  cut.  Dr.  Lambert  was  taking  a  last 
look  at  her  before  leaving. 

"Do  you  think  she  will  live,  doctor?"  he  asked  the  great 
surgeon  feverishly.  The  latter  looked  grave. 

"I  can't  say.  I  can't  say.  Her  strength  isn't  all  that  it 
ought  to  be.  Her  heart  and  kidneys  make  a  bad  combination. 
However,  it  was  a  last  chance.  We  had  to  take  it.  I'm  sorry. 
I'm  glad  we  were  able  to  save  the  child.  The  nurse  will  give 
her  the  best  of  care." 

He  went  out  into  his  practical  world  as  a  laborer  leaves  his 
work.  So  may  we  all.  Eugene  went  over  and  stood  by  An- 
gela. He  was  tremendously  sorry  for  the  long  years  of  mis- 
trust that  had  brought  this  about.  He  was  ashamed  of  him- 
self, of  life — of  its  strange  tangles.  She  was  so  little,  so  pale, 
so  worn.  Yes,  he  had  done  this.  He  had  brought  her  here 
by  his  lying,  his  instability,  his  uncertain  temperament.  It  was 
fairly  murder  from  one  point  of  view,  and  up  to  this  last  hour 
he  had  scarcely  relented.  But  life  had  done  things  to  him, 

too.  Now,  now Oh,  hell,  Oh,  God  damn!  If  she  would 

only  recover,  he  would  try  and  do  better.  Yes,  he  would.  It 
sounded  so  silly  coming  from  him,  but  he  would  try.  Love 
wasn't  worth  the  agony  it  cost.  Let  it  go.  Let  it  go.  He 
could  live.  Truly  there  were  hierarchies  and  powers,  as  Alfred 
Russel  Wallace  pointed  out.  There  was  a  God  somewhere. 
He  was  on  His  throne.  These  large,  dark,  immutable  forces, 
they  were  not  for  nothing.  If  she  would  only  not  die,  he  would 
try — he  would  behave.  He  would !  he  would ! 

He  gazed  at  her,  but  she  looked  so  wreak,  so  pale  now  he 
did  not  think  she  could  come  round. 

"Don't  you  want  to  come  home  with  me,  Eugene?"  said 
Myrtle,  who  had  come  back  some  time  before,  at  his  elbow. 
"We  can't  do  anything  here  now!  The  nurse  says  she  may  not 
become  conscious  for  several  hours.  The  baby  is  all  right  in 
their  care." 

The  baby !  the  baby !  He  had  forgotten  it,  forgotten  Myrtle. 
He  was  thinking  of  the  long  dark  tragedy  of  his  life — the 
miasma  of  it. 

"Yes,"  he  said  wearily.  It  was  nearly  morning.  He  went  out 
and  got  into  a  taxi  and  went  to  his  sister's  home,  but  in  spite 
of  his  weariness,  he  could  scarcely  sleep.  He  rolled  feverishly. 

In  the  morning  he  was  up  again,  early,  anxious  to  go  back  and 
see  how  Angela  was — and  the  child. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

THE  trouble  with  Angela's  system,  in  addition  to  a  weak 
heart,  was  that  it  was  complicated  at  the  time  of  her  de- 
livery by  that  peculiar  manifestation  of  nervous  distortion  or 
convulsions  known  as  eclampsia.  Once  in  every  five  hundred 
cases  (or  at  least  such  was  the  statistical  calculation  at  the 
time),  some  such  malady  occurred  to  reduce  the  number  of  the 
newborn.  In  every  two  such  terminations  one  mother  also 
died,  no  matter  what  the  anticipatory  preparations  were  on  the 
part  of  the  most  skilled  surgeons.  Though  not  caused  by,  it 
was  diagnosed  by,  certain  kidney  changes.  What  Eugene  had 
been  spared  while  he  was  out  in  the  hall  was  the  sight  of 
Angela  staring,  her  mouth  pulled  to  one  side  in  a  horrible 
grimace,  her  body  bent  back,  canoe  shape,  the  arms  flexed,  the 
fingers  and  thumbs  bending  over  each  other  to  and  fro,  in  and 
out,  slowly,  not  unlike  a  mechanical  figure  that  is  running 
down.  Stupor  and  unconsciousness  had  immediately  followed*, 
and  unless  the  child  had  been  immediately  brought  into  the 
world  and  the  womb  emptied,  she  and  it  would  have  died  a 
horrible  death.  As  it  was  she  had  no  real  strength  to  fight 
her  way  back  to  life  and  health.  A  Christian  Science  prac- 
titioner was  trying  to  "realize  her  identity  with  good"  for  her, 
but  she  had  no  faith  before  and  no  consciousness  now.  She 
came  to  long  enough  to  vomit  terribly,  and  then  sank  into  a 
fever.  In  it  she  talked  of  Eugene.  She  was  in  Blackwood, 
evidently,  and  wanted  him  to  come  back  to  her.  He  held  her 
hand  and  cried,  for  he  knew  that  there  was  never  any  recom- 
pense for  that  pain.  What  a  dog  he  had  been !  He  bit  his  lip 
and  stared  out  of  the  window. 

Once  he  said:  "Oh,  I'm  no  damned  good!  I  should  have 
died!" 

That  whole  day  passed  without  consciousness,  and  most  of 
the  night.  At  two  in  the  morning  Angela  woke  and  asked  to 
see  the  baby.  The  nurse  brought  it.  Eugene  held  her  hand. 
It  was  put  down  beside  her,  and  she  cried  for  joy,  but  it  was  a 
weak,  soundless  cry.  Eugene  cried  also. 

"It's  a  girl,  isn't  it?"  she  asked. 

"Yes,"  said  Eugene,  and  then,  after  a  pause,  "Angela,  I  want 
to  tell  you  something.  I'm  so  sorry,  I'm  ashamed.  I  want 

723 


724  THE   '"GENIUS" 

you  to  get  well.  I'll  do  better.  Really  I  will."  At  the  same 
time  he  was  wondering,  almost  subconsciously,  whether  he 
would  or  no.  Wouldn't  it  be  all  the  same  if  she  were  really 
well — or  worse? 

She  caressed  his  hand.  "Don't  cry,"  she  said,  "111  be  all 
right.  I'm  going  to  get  well.  We'll  both  do  better.  It's  as 
much  my  fault  as  yours.  I've  been  too  hard."  She  worked 
at  his  fingers,  but  he  only  choked.  His  vocal  cords  hurt 
him. 

"I'm  so  sorry.     I'm  so  sorry,"  he  finally  managed  to  say. 

The  child  was  taken  away  after  a  little  while  and  Angela 
was  feverish  again.  She  grew  very  weak,  so  weak  that  al- 
though she  was  conscious  later,  she  could  not  speak.  She  tried 
to  make  some  signs.  Eugene,  the  nurse,  Myrtle,  understood. 
The  baby.  It  was  brought  and  held  up  before  her.  She 
smiled  a  weak,  yearning  smile  and  looked  at  Eugene.  "I'll 
take  care  of  her,"  he  said,  bending  over  her.  He  swore  a 
great  oath  to  himself.  He  would  be  decent — he  would  be 
clean  henceforth  and  for  ever.  The  child  was  put  beside  her 
for  a  little  .while,  but  she  could  not  move.  She  sank  steadily 
and  died. 

Eugene  sat  by  the  bed  holding  his  head  in  his  hands.  So, 
he  had  his  wish.  She  was  really  dead.  Now  he  had  been 
taught  what  it  was  to  fly  in  the  face  of  conscience,  instinct, 
immutable  law.  He  sat  there  an  hour  while  Myrtle  begged 
him  to  come  away. 

"Please,  Eugene!"  she  said.     "Please!" 

"No,  no,"  he  replied.  "Where  shall  I  go?  I  am  well  enough 
here." 

After  a  time  he  did  go,  however,  wondering  how  he  would 
adjust  his  life  from  now  on.  Who  would  take  care  of — 
of 

"Angela"  came  the  name  to  his  mind.  Yes,  he  would  call 
her  "Angela."  He  had  heard  someone  say  she  was  going  to 
have  pale  yellow  hair. 

The  rest  of  this  story  is  a  record  of  philosophic  doubt  and 
speculation  and  a  gradual  return  to  normality,  his  kind  of 
normality — the  artistic  normality  of  which  he  was  capable.  He 
would — he  thought — never  again  be  the  maundering  sentimental- 
ist and  enthusiast,  imagining  perfection  in  every  beautiful 
woman  that  he  saw.  Yet  there  was  a  period  when,  had  Suzanne 
returned  suddenly,  all  would  have  been  as  before  between  them, 
and  even  more  so,  despite  his  tremulousness  of  spirit,  his  specu- 


THE   "GENIUS"  725 

lative  interest  in  Christian  Science  as  a  way  out  possibly,  his 
sense  of  brutality,  almost  murder,  in  the  case  of  Angela — for, 
the  old  attraction  still  gnawed  at  his  vitals.  Although  he  had 
Angela,  junior,  now  to  look  after,  and  in  a  way  to  divert 
him, — a  child  whom  he  came  speedily  to  delight  in — his  for- 
tune to  restore,  and  a  sense  of  responsibility  to  that  abstract 
thing,  society  or  public  opinion  as  represented  by  those  he 
knew  or  who  knew  him,  still  there  was  this  ache  and  this 
non-controllable  sense  of  adventure  which  freedom  to  contract 
a  new  matrimonial  alliance  or  build  his  life  on  the  plan  he 
schemed  with  Suzanne  gave  him.  Suzanne!  Suzanne! — how 
her  face,  her  gestures,  her  voice,  haunted  him.  Not  Angela,  for 
all  the  pathos  of  her  tragic  ending,  but  Suzanne.  He  thought 
of  Angela  often — those  last  hours  in  the  hospital,  her  last 
commanding  look  which  meant  "please  look  after  our  child," 
and  whenever  he  did  so  his  vocal  cords  tightened  as  under  the 
grip  of  a  hand  and  his  eyes  threatened  to  overflow,  but  even 
so,  and  even  then,  that  undertow,  that  mystic  cord  that  seemed 
to  pull  from  his  solar  plexus  outward,  was  to  Suzanne  and  to 
her  only.  Suzanne!  Suzanne!  Around  her  hair,  the  thought 
of  her  smile,  her  indescribable  presence,  was  built  all  that  sub- 
stance of  romance  which  he  had  hoped  to  enjoy  and  which  now, 
in  absence  and  probably  final  separation,  glowed  with  a  radi- 
ance which  no  doubt  the  reality  could  never  have  had. 

"We  are  such  stuff  as  dreams  are  made  on  and  our  little 
life  is  rounded  with  a  sleep."  We  are  such  stuff  as  dreams 
are  made  on,  and  only  of  dreams  are  our  keen,  stinging  realities 
compounded.  Nothing  else  is  so  moving,  so  vital,  so  painful  as 
a  dream. 

For  a  time  that  first  spring  and  summer,  while  Myrtle  looked 
after  little  Angela  and  Eugene  went  to  live  with  her  and  her 
husband,  he  visited  his  old  Christian  Science  practitioner,  Mrs. 
Johns.  He  had  not  been  much  impressed  with  the  result  in 
Angela's  case,  but  Myrtle  explained  the  difficulty  of  the  situa- 
tion in  a  plausible  way.  He  was  in  a  terrific  state  of  depres- 
sion, and  it  was  while  he  was  so  that  Myrtle  persuaded  him 
to  go  again.  She  insisted  that  Mrs.  Johns  would  overcome  his 
morbid  gloom,  anyhow,  and  make  him  feel  better.  "You  want 
to  come  out  of  this,  Eugene,"  she  pleaded.  "You  will  never 
do  anything  until  you  do.  You  are  a  big  man.  Life  isn't  over. 
It's  just  begun.  You're  going  to  get  well  and  strong  again. 
Don't  worry.  Everything  that  is  is  for  the  best."^ 

He  went  once,  quarreling  with  himself  for  doing  so,  for  in 
spite  of  his  great  shocks,  or  rather  because  of  them,  he  had  no 


726  THE   "GENIUS" 

faith  in  religious  conclusions  of  any  kind.  Angela  had  not 
been  saved.  Why  should  he? 

Still  the  metaphysical  urge  was  something — it  was  so  hard 
to  suffer  spiritually  and  not  believe  there  was  some  way  out. 
At  times  he  hated  Suzanne  for  her  indifference.  If  ever  she 
came  back  he  would  show  her.  There  would  be  no  feeble 
urgings  and  pleadings  the  next  time.  She  had  led  him  into  this 
trap,  knowing  well  what  she  was  doing — for  she  wras  wise 
enough — and  then  had  lightly  deserted  him.  Was  that  the 
action  of  a  large  spirit?  he  asked  himself.  Would  the  wonder- 
ful something  he  thought  he  saw  there  be  capable  of  that?  Ah, 
those  hours  at  Daleview — that  one  stinging  encounter  in  Can- 
ada ! — the  night  she  danced  with  him  so  wonderfully ! 

During  a  period  of  nearly  three  years  all  the  vagaries  and 
alterations  which  can  possibly  afflict  a  groping  and  morbid  mind 
were  his.  He  went  from  what  might  be  described  as  almost  a 
belief  in  Christian  Science  to  almost  a  belief  that  a  devil  ruled 
the  world,  a  Gargantuan  Brobdingnagian  Mountebank,  who 
plotted  tragedy  for  all  ideals  and  rejoiced  in  swine  and 
dullards  and  a  grunting,  sweating,  beefy  immorality.  By  de- 
grees his  God,  if  he  could  have  been  said  to  have  had  one  in 
his  consciousness,  sank  back  into  a  dual  personality  or  a  com- 
pound of  good  and  evil — the  most  ideal  and  ascetic  good,  as 
well  as  the  most  fantastic  and  swinish  evil.  His  God,  for  a 
time  at  least,  was  a  God  of  storms  and  horrors  as  well  as  of 
serenities  and  perfections.  He  then  reached  a  state  not  of  ab- 
negation, but  of  philosophic  open-mindedness  or  agnosticism. 
He  came  to  know  that  he  did  not  know  what  to  believe. 
All  apparently  was  permitted,  nothing  fixed.  Perhaps  life 
loved  only  change,  equation,  drama,  laughter.  When  in  mo- 
ments of  private  speculation  or  social  argument  he  was  prone 
to  condemn  it  loudest,  he  realized  that  at  worst  and  at  best  it 
was  beautiful,  artistic,  gay,  that,  however,  he  might  age,  groan, 
complain,  withdraw,  wither,  still,  in  spite  of  him,  this  large 
thing  which  he  at  once  loved  and  detested  was  sparkling  on. 
He  might  quarrel,  but  it  did  not  care;  he  might  fail  or  die, 
but  it  could  not.  He  was  negligible — but,  oh,  the  sting  and 
delight  of  its  inner  shrines  and  favorable  illusions. 

And  curiously,  for  a  time,  even  while  he  was  changing  in 
this  way,  he  went  back  to  see  Mrs.  Johns,  principally  be- 
cause he  liked  her.  She  seemed  to  be  a  motherly  soul  to  him, 
contributing  some  of  the  old  atmosphere  he  had  enjoyed  in  his 
own  home  in  Alexandria.  This  woman,  from  working  constantly 
in  the  esoteric  depths,  which  Mrs.  Eddy's  book  suggests,  demon- 


THE   "GENIUS"  727 

strating  for  herself,  as  she  thought,  through  her  belief  in  or 
understanding  of,  the  oneness  of  the  universe  (its  non-malicious, 
affectionate  control,  the  non-existence  of  fear,  pain,  disease,  and 
death  itself),  had  become  so  grounded  in  her  faith  that  evil 
positively  did  not  exist  save  in  the  belief  of  mortals,  that  at 
times  she  almost  convinced  Eugene  that  it  was  so.  He  specu- 
lated long  and  deeply  along  these  lines  with  her.  He  had  come 
to  lean  on  her  in  his  misery  quite  as  a  boy  might  on  his  mother. 

The  universe  to  her  w^as,  as  Mrs.  Eddy  said,  spiritual,  not 
material,  and  no  wretched  condition,  however  seemingly  power- 
ful, could  hold  against  the  truth — could  gainsay  divine  harmony. 
God  was  good.  All  that  is,  is  God.  Hence  all  that  is,  is  good 
or  it  is  an  illusion.  It  could  not  be  otherwise.  She  looked  at 
Eugene's  case,  as  she  had  at  many  a  similar  one,  being  sure,  in 
her  earnest  way,  that  she,  by  realizing  his  ultimate  fundamental 
spirituality,  could  bring  him  out  of  his  illusions,  and  make  him 
see  the  real  spirituality  of  things,  in  which  the  world  of  flesh 
and  desire  had  no  part. 

"Beloved,"  she  loved  to  quote  to  him,  "now  are  we  the  sons 
of  God,  and  it  doth  not  yet  appear  what  we  shall  be,  but  we 
know  that  when  he  shall  appear" — (and  she  explained  that  he 
was  this  universal  spirit  of  perfection  of  which  we  are  a  part) — 
"we  shall  be  like  him ;  for  we  shall  see  him  as  He  is." 

"And  every  man  that  has  this  hope  in  him  purifieth  himself 
even  as  He  is  pure." 

She  once  explained  to  him  that  this  did  not  mean  that  the 
man  must  purify  himself  by  some  hopeless  moral  struggle,  or 
emaciating  abstinance,  but  rather  that  the  fact  that  he  had  this 
hope  of  something  better  in  him,  would  fortify  him  in  spite 
of  himself. 

"You  laugh  at  me,"  she  said  to  him  one  day/'but  I  tell  you 
you  are  a  child  of  God.  There  is  a  divine  spark  in  you.  It  must 
come  out.  I  know  it  will.  All  this  other  thing  will  fall  away  as 
a  bad  dream.  It  has  no  reality." 

She  even  went  so  far  in  a  sweet  motherly  way  as  to  sing 
hymns  to  him,  and  now,  strange  to  relate,  her  thin  voice  was 
no  longer  irritating  to  him,  and  her  spirit  made  her  seemingly 
beautiful  in  his  eyes.  He  did  not  try  to  adjust  the  curiosities 
and  anomalies  of  material  defects  in  so  far  as  she  was  concerned. 
The  fact  that  her  rooms  were  anything  but  artistically  per- 
fect; that  her  body  was  shapeless,  or  comparatively  so,  when 
contrasted  with  that  standard  of  which  he  had  always  been  so 
conscious;  the  fact  that  whales  were  accounted  by^her  in  some 
weird  way  as  spiritual,  and  bugs  and  torturesome  insects  of  all 


728  THE    "GENIUS" 

kinds  as  emanations  of  mortal  mind,  did  not  trouble  him  at 
all.  There  was  something  in  this  thought  of  a  spiritual  universe 
— of  a  kindly  universe,  if  you  sought  to  make  it  so,  which  pleased 
him.  The  five  senses  certainly  could  not  indicate  the  totality  of 
things;  beyond  them  must  lie  depths  upon  depths  of  wonder  and 
power.  Why  might  not  this  act?  Why  might  it  not  be  good? 
That  book  that  he  had  once  read— "The  World  Machine"— 
had  indicated  this  planetary  life  as  being  infinitesimally  small; 
that  from  the  point  of  view  of  infinity  it  was  not  even  thinkable 
— and  yet  here  it  appeared  to  be  so  large.  Why  might  it  not 
be,  as  Carlyle  had  said,  a  state  of  mind,  and  as  such,  so  easily 
dissolvable.  These  thoughts  grew  by  degrees,  in  force,  in  power. 

At  the  same  time'  he  was  beginning  to  go  out  again  a  little. 
A  chance  meeting  with  M.  Charles,  who  grasped  his  hand 
warmly  and  wanted  to  know  where  he  was  and  what  he  was 
doing,  revived  his  old  art  fever.  M.  Charles  suggested,  with 
an  air  of  extreme  interest,  that  he  should  get  up  another  ex- 
hibition along  whatever  line  he  chose. 

"You!"  he  said,  with  a  touch  of  heartening  sympathy,  and 
yet  with  a  glow  of  fine  corrective  scorn,  for  he  considered 
Eugene  as  an  artist  only,  and  a  very  great  one  at  that.  "You, — 
Eugene  Witla — an  editor — a  publisher !  Pah !  You — who  could 
have  all  the  art  lovers  of  the  world  at  your  feet  in  a  few 
years  if  you  chose — you  who  could  do  more  for  American  art 
in  your  life  time  than  anyone  I  know,  wasting  your  time  art 
directing,  art  editing — publishing!  Pouf!  Aren't  you  really 
ashamed  of  yourself?  But  it  isn't  too  late.  Come  now — a  fine 
exhibition!  What  do  you  say  to  an  exhibition  of  some  kind 
next  January  or  February,  in  the  full  swing  of  the  season? 
Everybody's  interested  then.  I  will  give  you  our  largest  gal- 
lery. How  is  that?  What  do  you  say?"  he  glowed  in  a  pe- 
culiarly Frenchy  way, — half  commanding,  half  inspiring  or  ex- 
horting. 

"If  I  can,"  said  Eugene  quietly,  with  a  deprecating  wave  of 
the  hand,  and  a  faint  line  of  self-scorn  about  the  corners  of 
his  mouth.  "It  may  be  too  late." 

"  'Too  late!  Too  late!'  What  nonsense!  Do  you  say  that 
to  me?  If  you  can!  If  you  can!  Well,  I  give  you  up!  You 
with  your  velvet  textures  and  sure  lines.  It  is  too  much.  It 
is  unbelievable!" 

He  raised  his  hands,  eyes,  and  eye-brows  in  Gallic  despair. 
He  shrugged  his  shoulders,  waiting  to  see  a  change  of  expres- 
sion in  Eugene. 

"Very  good!"  said  Eugene,  when  he  heard  this.     "Only  I 


THE    "GENIUS"  729 

can't  promise  anything.  We  will  see."  And  he  wrote  out  his 
address. 

This  started  him  once  more.  The  Frenchman,  who  had  often 
heard  him  spoken  of  and  had  sold  all  his  earlier  pictures,  was 
convinced  that  there  was  money  in  him — if  not  here  then  abroad 
—money  and  some  repute  for  himself  as  his  sponsor.  Some 
American  artists  must  be  encouraged — some  must  rise.  Why  not 
Eugene?  Here  was  one  who  really  deserved  it. 

So  Eugene  worked,  painting  swiftly,  feverishly,  brilliantly — 
with  a  feeling  half  the  time  that  his  old  art  force  had  deserted 
him  for  ever — everything  that  came  into  his  mind.  Taking  a 
north  lighted  room  near  Myrtle  he  essayed  portraits  of  her  and 
her  husband,  of  her  and  baby  Angela,  making  arrangements 
which  were  classically  simple.  Then  he  chose  models  from 
the  streets, — laborers,  washerwomen,  drunkards — characters  all, 
destroying  canvases  frequently,  but,  on  the  whole,  making  steady 
progress.  He  had  a  strange  fever  for  painting  life  as  he  saw  it, 
for  indicating  it  with  exact  portraits  of  itself,  strange,  grim 
presentations  of  its  vagaries,  futilities,  commonplaces,  drolleries, 
brutalities.  The  mental,  fuzzy-wuzzy  maunderings  and  mean- 
derings  of  the  mob  fascinated  him.  The  paradox  of  a  decaying 
drunkard  placed  against  the  vivid  persistence  of  life  gripped  his 
fancy.  Somehow  it  suggested  himself  hanging  on,  fighting  on, 
accusing  nature,  and  it  gave  him  great  courage  to  do  it.  This 
picture  eventually  sold  for  eighteen  thousand  dollars,  a  record 
price. 

In  the  meantime  his  lost  dream  in  the  shape  of  Suzanne  was 
traveling  abroad  with  her  mother — in  England,  Scotland,  France, 
Egypt,  Italy,  Greece.  Aroused  by  the  astonishing  storm  which 
her  sudden  and  uncertain  fascination  had  brought  on,  she  was 
now  so  shaken  and  troubled  by  the  disasters  which  had  seemed 
to  flow  to  Eugene  in  her  wake,  that  she  really  did  not  know 
what  to  do  or  think.  She  was  still  too  young,  too  nebulous. 
She  was  strong  enough  in  body  and  mind,  but  very  uncertain 
philosophically  and  morally — a  dreamer  and  opportunist.  Her 
mother,  fearful  of  some  headstrong,  destructive  outburst  in  which 
her  shrewdest  calculations  would  prove  of  no  avail,  was  most 
anxious  to  be  civil,  loving,  courteous,  politic — anything  to  avoid 
a  disturbing  re-encounter  with  the  facts  of  the  past,  or  a  sudden 
departure  on  the  part  of  Suzanne,  which  she  hourly  feared. 
What  was  she  to  do?  Anything  Suzanne  wanted — her  least 
whim,  her  moods  in  dress,  pleasure,  travel,  friendship,  were  most 
assiduously  catered  to.  Would  she  like  to  go  here?  would  she 
like  to  see  that?  would  this  amuse  her?  would  that  be  pleasant? 


730  THE    ''GENIUS" 

And  Suzanne,  seeing  always  what  her  mother's  motives  were,  and 
troubled  by  the  pain  and  disgrace  she  had  brought  on  Eugene, 
was  uncertain  now  as  to  whether  her  conduct  had  been  right  or 
not.  She  puzzled  over  it  continually. 

More  terrifying,  however,  was  the  thought  which  came  to  her 
occasionally  as  to  whether  she  had  really  loved  Eugene  at  all 
or  not.  Was  this  not  a  passing  fancy?  Had  there  not  been  some 
chemistry  of  the  blood,  causing  her  to  make  a  fool  of  herself, 
without  having  any  real  basis  in  intellectual  rapprochement.  Was 
Eugene  truly  the  one  man  with  whom  she  could  have  been 
happy?  Was  he  not  too  adoring,  too  headstrong,  too  foolish 
and  mistaken  in  his  calculations?  Was  he  the  able  person  she 
had  really  fancied  him  to  be?  Would  she  not  have  come  to 
dislike  him — to  hate  him  even — in  a  short  space  of  time  ?  Could 
they  have  been  truly,  permanently  happy?  Would  she  not  be 
more  interested  in  one  who  was  sharp,  defiant,  indifferent — one 
whom  she  could  be  compelled  to  adore  and  fight  for  rather  than 
one  who  was  constantly  adoring  her  and  needing  her  sym- 
pathy? A  strong,  solid,  courageous  man — was  not  such  a  one 
her  ideal,  after  all?  And  could  Eugene  be  said  to  be  that? 
These  and  other  questions  tormented  her  constantly. 

It  is  strange,  but  life  is  constantly  presenting  these  pathetic 
paradoxes — these  astounding  blunders  which  temperament  and 
blood  moods  bring  about  and  reason  and  circumstance  and  con- 
vention condemn.  The  dreams  of  man  are  one  thing — his  ca- 
pacity to  realize  them  another.  At  either  pole  are  the  accidents 
of  supreme  failure  and  supreme  success — the  supreme  failure  of 
an  Abelard  for  instance,  the  supreme  success  of  a  Napoleon, 
enthroned  at  Paris.  But,  oh,  the  endless  failures  for  one  suc- 
cess. 

But  in  this  instance  it  cannot  be  said  that  Suzanne  had  defi- 
nitely concluded  that  she  did  not  love  him.  Far  from  it.  Al- 
though the  cleverest  devices  were  resorted  to  by  Mrs.  Dale  to 
bring  her  into  contact  with  younger  and  to  her — now — more 
interesting  personalities,  Suzanne — very  much  of  an  introspec- 
tive dreamer  and  quiet  spectator  herself,  was  not  to  be  swiftly 
deluded  by  love  again — if  she  had  been  deluded.  She  had  half 
decided  to  study  men  from  now  on,  and  use  them,  if  need 
be,  waiting  for  the  time  when  some  act,  of  Eugene's,  :  perhaps, 
or  some  other  personality,  might  decide  for  her.  The  strange, 
destructive  spell  of  her  beauty  began  to  interest  her,  for  now  she 
knew  that  she  really  was  beautiful.  She  looked  in  her  mirror 
very  frequently  now — at  the  artistry  of  a  curl,  the  curve  of  her 
chin,  her  cheek,  her  arm.  If  ever  she  went  back  to  Eugene 


THE   "  GENIUS  M  731 

how  well  she  would  repay  him  for  his  agony.  But  would  she? 
Could  she  ?  Would  he  have  not  recovered  his  sanity  and  be  able 
to  snap  his  fingers  in  her  face  and  smile  superciliously?  For, 
after  all,  no  doubt  he  was  a  wonderful  man  and  would  shine 
as  something  somewhere  soon  again.  And  when  he  did — what 
would  he  think  of  her — her  silence,  her  desertion,  her  moral 
cowardice  ? 

"After  all,  I  am  not  of  much  account,"  she  said  to  herself. 
"But  what  he  thought  of  me! — that  wild  fever — that  was  won- 
derful! Really  he  was  wonderful!" 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

denouement  of  all  this,  as  much  as  ever  could  be,  was 
JL  still  two  years  off.  By  that  time  Suzanne  was  considerably 
more  sobered,  somewhat  more  intellectually  cultivated,  a  little 
cooler — not  colder  exactly — and  somewhat  more  critical.  Men, 
when  it  came  to  her  type  of  beauty,  were  a  little  too  suggestive 
of  their  amorousness.  After  Eugene  their  proffers  of  passion, 
adoration,  undying  love,  were  not  so  significant. 

But  one  day  in  New  York  on  Fifth  Avenue,  there  was  a  re- 
encounter.  She  was  shopping  with  her  mother,  but  their  ways, 
for  a  moment,  were  divided.  By  now  Eugene  was  once  more 
in  complete  possession  of  his  faculties.  The  old  ache  had  sub- 
sided to  a  dim  but  colorful  mirage  of  beauty  that  was  always  in 
his  eye.  Often  he  had  thought  what  he  would  do  if  he  saw 
Suzanne  again — what  say,  if  anything.  Would  he  smile,  bow 
— and  if  there  were  an  answering  light  in  her  eye,  begin  his 
old  courtship  all  over,  or  would  he  find  her  changed,  cold,  in- 
different? Would  he  be  indifferent,  sneering?  It  would  be 
hard  on  him,  perhaps,  afterwards,  but  it  would  pay  her  out  and 
serve  her  right.  If  she  really  cared,  she  ought  to  be  made  to 
suffer  for  being  a  waxy  fool  and  tool  in  the  hands  of  her  mother. 
He  did  not  know  that  she  had  heard  of  his  wife's  death — the 
birth  of  his  child — and  that  she  had  composed  and  destroyed 
five  different  letters,  being  afraid  of  reprisal,  indifference,  scorn. 

She  had  heard  of  his  rise  to  fame  as  an  artist  once  more,  for 
the  exhibition  had  finally  come  about,  and  with  it  great  praise, 
generous  acknowledgments  of  his  ability — artists  admired  him 
most  of  all.  They  thought  him  strange,  eccentric,  but  great. 
M.  Charles  had  suggested  to  a  great  bank  director  that  his 
new  bank  in  the  financial  district  be  decorated  by  Eugene  alone, 
which  was  eventually  done — nine  great  panels  in  which  he  ex- 
pressed deeply  some  of  his  feeling  for  life.  At  Washington,  in 
two  of  the  great  public  buildings  and  in  three  state  capitols  were 
tall,  glowing  panels  also  of  his  energetic  dreaming, — a  brood- 
ing suggestion  of  beauty  that  never  was  on  land  or  sea.  Here 
and  there  in  them  you  might  have  been  struck  by  a  face — an  arm, 
a  cheek,  an  eye.  If  you  had  ever  known  Suzanne  as  she  was 
you  would  have  known  the  basis — the  fugitive  spirit  at  the  bot- 
tom of  all  these  things. 

But  in  spite  of  that  he  now  hated  her — or  told  himself  that 

733 


THE   "GENIUS"  733 

he  did.  Under  the  heel  of  his  intellectuality  was  the  face,  the 
beauty  that  he  adored.  He  despised  and  yet  loved  it.  Life 
had  played  him  a  vile  trick — love — thus  to  frenzy  his  reason 
and  then  to  turn  him  out  as  mad.  Now,  never  again,  should 
love  affect  him,  and  yet  the  beauty  of  woman  was  still  his 
great  lure — only  he  was  the  master. 

And  then  one  day  Suzanne  appeared. 

He  scarcely  recognized  her,  so  sudden  it  was  and  so  quickly 
ended.  She  was  crossing  Fifth  Avenue  at  Forty-second  Street. 
He  was  coming  out  of  a  jeweler's,  with  a  birthday  ring  for 
little  Angela.  Then  the  eyes  of  this  girl,  a  pale  look — a  flash 
of  something  wonderful  that  he  remembered  and  then 

He  stared  curiously — not  quite  sure. 

"He  does  not  even  recognize  me,"  thought  Suzanne,  "or 
he  hates  me  now.  Oh! — all  in  five  years!" 

"It  is  she,  I  believe,"  he  said  to  himself,  "though  I  am  not 
quite  sure.  Well,  if  it  is  she  can  go  to  the  devil!"  His  mouth 
hardened.  "I  will  cut  her  as  she  deserves  to  be  cut,"  he 
thought.  "She  shall  never  know  that  I  care." 

And  so  they  passed, — never  to  meet  in  this  world — each  al- 
ways wishing,  each  defying,  each  folding  a  wraith  of  beauty 
to  the  heart. 


L'ENVOI 

appears  to  be  in  metaphysics  a  basis,  or  no  basis,  ac- 
JL  cording  as  the  temperament  and  the  experience  of  each  shall 
incline  him,  for  ethical  or  spiritual  ease  or  peace.  Life  sinks 
into  the  unknowable  at  every  turn  and  only  the  temporary  or 
historical  scene  remains  as  a  guide, — and  that  passes  also.  It 
may  seem  rather  beside  the  mark  that  Eugene  in  his  moral  and 
physical  depression  should  have  inclined  to  various  religious  ab- 
strusities for  a  time,  but  life  does  such  things  in  a  storm. 
They  constituted  a  refuge  from  himself,  from  his  doubts  and 
despairs  as  religious  thought  always  does. 

If  I  were  personally  to  define  religion  I  would  say  that  it 
is  a  bandage  that  man  has  invented  to  protect  a  soul  made 
bloody  by  circumstance;  an  envelope  to  pocket  him  from  the 
unescapable  and  unstable  illimitable.  We  seek  to  think  of 
things  as  permanent  and  see  them  so.  Religion  gives  life  a 
habitation  and  a  name  apparently — though  it  is  an  illusion. 
So  we  are  brought  back  to  time  and  space  and  illimitable  mind 
— as  what?  And  we  shall  always  stand  before  them  attribut- 
ing to  them  all  those  things  which  we  cannot  know. 

Yet  the  need  for  religion  is  impermanent,  like  all  else  in 
life.  As  the  soul  regains  its  health,  it  becomes  prone  to  the 
old  illusions.  Again  women  entered  his  life — never  believe 
otherwise — drawn,  perhaps,  by  a  certain  wistfulness  and  lone- 
liness in  Eugene,  who  though  quieted  by  tragedy  for  a  little 
while  was  once  more  moving  in  the  world.  He  saw  their 
approach  with  more  skepticism,  and  yet  not  unmoved — women 
who  came  through  the  drawing  rooms  to  which  he  was  in- 
vited, wives  and  daughters  who  sought  to  interest  him  in  them- 
selves and  would  scarcely  take  no  for  an  answer;  women  of 
the  stage — women  artists,  poetasters,  "varietists,"  critics,  dream- 
ers. From  the  many  approaches,  letters  and  meetings,  some 
few  relationships  resulted,  ending  as  others  had  ended.  Was 
he  not  changed,  then?  Not  much — no.  Only  hardened  in- 
tellectually and  emotionally — tempered  for  life  and  work.  There 
were  scenes,  too,  violent  ones,  tears,  separations,  renounce- 
ments, cold  meetings — with  little  Angela  always  to  one  side 
in  Myrtle's  care  as  a  stay  and  consolation. 

In  Eugene  one  saw  an  artist  who,  pagan  to  the  core,  en- 
joyed reading  the  Bible  for  its  artistry  of  expression,  and  Scho- 
penhauer, Nietzsche,  Spinoza  and  James  for  the  mystery  of  things 

734 


THE    "GENIUS"  735 

which  they  suggested.  In  his  child  he  found  a  charming  per- 
sonality and  a  study  as  well — one  whom  he  could  brood  over 
with  affectionate  interest  at  times,  seeing  already  something  of 
himself  and  something  of  Angela,  and  wondering  at  the  out- 
come. What  would  she  be  like?  Would  art  have  any  interest 
for  her?  She  was  so  daring,  gay,  self-willed,  he  thought. 

"You've  a  Tartar  on  your  hands/'  Myrtle  once  said  to  him, 
and  he  smiled  as  he  replied : 

"Just  the  same  I'll  see  if  I  can't  keep  up  with  her." 

One  of  his  occasional  thoughts  was  that  if  he  and  Angela, 
junior,  came  to  understand  each  other  thoroughly,  and  she  did 
not  marry  too  soon,  he  could  build  a  charming  home  around 
her.  Perhaps  her  husband  might  not  object  to  living  with 
them. 

The  last  scene  of  all  may  be  taken  from  his  studio  in  Mont- 
clair,  where  with  Myrtle  and  her  husband  as  resident  house- 
keepers and  Angela  as  his  diversion  he  was  living  and  working. 
He  was  sitting  in  front  of  his  fireplace  one  night  reading,  when 
a  thought  in  some  history  recalled  to  his  mind  a  paragraph 
somewhere  in  Spencer's  astonishing  chapters  on  "the  unknow- 
able" in  his  "Facts  and  Comments,"  and  he  arose  to  see  if  he 
could  find  it.  Rummaging  around  in  his  books  he  extracted 
the  volume  and  reread  it,  with  a  kind  of  smack  of  intellectual 
agreement,  for  it  suited  his  mood  in  regard  to  life  and  his  own 
mental  state  in  particular.  Because  it  was  so  peculiarly  related 
to  his  own  viewpoint  I  quote  it: 

"Beyond  the  reach  of  our  intelligence  as  are  the  mysteries 
of  the  objects  known  by  our  senses,  those  presented  in  this 
universal  matrix  are,  if  we  may  say  so,  still  further  beyond  the 
reach  of  our  intelligence,  for  whereas,  those  of  the  one  kind  may 
be,  and  are,  thought  of  by  many  as  explicable  on  the  hypothesis 
of  creation,  and  by  the  rest  on  the  hypothesis  of  evolution, 
those  of  the  other  kind  cannot  by  either  be,  regarded  as  thus 
explicable.  Theist  and  Agnostic  must  agree  in  recognizing  the 
properties  of  Space  as  inherent,  eternal,  uncreated — as  anteced- 
ing  all  creation,  if  creation  has  taken  place.  Hence,  could  we 
penetrate  the  mysteries  of  existence,  there  would  still  remain 
more  transcendent  mysteries.  That  which  can  be  thought  of 
as  neither  made  nor  evolved  presents  us  with  facts  the  origin  of 
which  is  even  more  remote  from  conceivability  than  is  the 
origin  of  the  facts  presented  by  visible  and  tangible  things. 
.  .  .  The  thought  of  this  blank  form  of  existence  which,  ex- 
plored in  all  directions  as  far  as  eye  can  reach,  has,  beyond  that, 
an  unexplored  region  compared  with  which  the  part  imagina- 


736  THE    "GENIUS" 

tion  has  traversed  is  but  infinitesimal — the  thought  of  a  space, 
compared  with  which  our  immeasurable  sidereal  system  dwindles 
to  a  point,  is  a  thought  too  overwhelming  to  be  dwelt  upon.  Of 
late  years  the  consciousness  that  without  origin  or  cause,  in- 
finite space  has  ever  existed  and  must  ever  exist  produces  in  me 
a  feeling  from  which  I  shrink." 

''Well/'  said  Eugene,  turning  as  he  thought  he  heard  a  slight 
noise,  "that  is  certainly  the  sanest  interpretation  of  the  limita- 
tions of  human  thought  I  have  ever  read" — and  then  seeing  the 
tiny  Angela  enter,  clad  in  a  baggy  little  sleeping  suit  which 
was  not  unrelated  to  a  Harlequin  costume,  he  smiled,  for  he 
knew  her  wheedling,  shifty  moods  and  tricks. 

"Now  what  are  you  coming  in  here  for?"  he  asked,  with 
mock  severity.  "You  know  you  oughn't  to  be  up  so  late.  If 
Auntie  Myrtle  catches  you!" 

"But  I  can't  sleep,  Daddy,"  she  replied  trickily,  anxious  to 
be  with  him  a  little  while  longer  before  the  fire,  and  tripping 
coaxingly  across  the  floor.  "Won't  you  take  me?" 

"Yes,  I  know  all  about  your  not  being  able  to  sleep,  you 
scamp.  You're  coming  in  here  to  be  cuddled.  You  beat  it!" 

"Oh,  no,  Daddy!" 

"All  right,  then,  come  here."  And  he  gathered  her  up  in 
his  arms  and  reseated  himself  by  the  fire.  "Now  you  go  to 
sleep  or  back  you  go  to  bed." 

She  snuggled  down,  her  yellow  head  in  his  crook'd  elbow 
while  he  looked  at  her  cheek,  recalling  the  storm  in  which  she 
had  arrived. 

"Little  flower  girl,"  he  said.     "Sweet  little  kiddie." 

His  offspring  made  no  reply.  Presently  he  carried  her 
asleep  to  her  couch,  tucked  her  in,  and,  coming  back,  went  out 
on  the  brown  lawn,  where  a  late  November  wind  rustled  in  the 
still  clinging  brown  leaves.  Overhead  were  the  stars — Orion's 
majestic  belt  and  those  mystic  constellations  that  make  Dippers, 
Bears,  and  that  remote  cloudy  formation  known  as  the  Milky 
Way. 

"Where  in  all  this — in  substance,"  he  thought,  rubbing  his 
hand  through  his  hair,  "is  Angela?  Where  in  substance  will 
be  that  which  is  me?  What  a  sweet  welter  life  is — how  rich, 
how  tender,  how  grim,  how  like  a  colorful  symphony." 

Great  art  dreams  welled  up  into  his  soul  as  he  viewed  the 
sparkling  deeps  of  space. 

"The  sound  of  the  wind — how  fine  it  is  tonight,"  he  thought. 

Then  he  went  quietly  in  and  closed  the  door. 

THE   END 


TS 


